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THE  STORY  OF  THE  GADSBYS 


CopyriKht,  I8',)i),  by  H.  M.  CalUweU  Co. 

'  '  It's  quite  true  —  about  —  the  —  egg.' 


E^t  Storg  of  tje  ©atrofjge 

9!n  :Biacfi  anb  ^i^ftt 

QCije  Wiotiii  of 


Wi)t  (Greenock  ^res^g 


|!io£(ton 


Mtta  |9orb 


COPYRIGHT,     1899,     BY 

H.  M.  CALDWELL  CO. 


CONTENTS 


PAGB 


Preface           

.       7 

Poor  Dear  Mamma 

9 

The  World  Without    . 

.     27 

The  Tents  of  Kedar    . 

■     45 

With  any  Amazement   . 

.     63 

The  Garden  of  Eden    . 

.     81 

Fatima 

97 

The  Valley  of  the  Shadow 

119 

The  Swelling  of  Jordan 

.  137 

PREFACE 

To  THE  ADDRESS  OF 

CAPTAIN  J.  MAFFLIN, 
Diike  of  Derry's  {Pink)  Hussars. 

Dear  Mafflin, — You  will  remember  that  I 
wrote  this  story  as  an  Awful  Warning.  None 
the  less  you  have  seen  fit  to  disregard  it  and 
have  followed  Gadsby's  example — as  I  betted 
you  would.  I  acknowledge  that  you  paid  the 
money  at  once,  but  you  have  prejudiced  the 
mind  of  Mrs.  Mafflin  against  myself,  for  though 
I  am  almost  the  only  respectable  friend  of  your 
bachelor  days,  she  has  been  darwa^a  band  to  me 
throughout  the  season.  Further,  she  caused  you 
to  invite  me  to  dinner  at  the  Club,  where  you 
called  me  "a  wild  ass  of  the  desert,"  and  went 
home  at  half-past  ten,  after  discoursing  for 
twenty  minutes  on  the  responsibilities  of  house- 
keeping. You  now  drive  a  mail-phaeton  and  sit 
under  a  Church  of  England  clergyman.  I  am 
not  angry.  Jack,  it  is  your  kismet,  as  it  was 
Caddy's,  and  his  kismet  who  can  avoid  ?  Do  not 
think  that  I  am  moved  by  a  spirit  of  revenge  as  I 
write,  thus  publicly,  that  you  and  you  alone  are 

7 


8  Preface 

responsible  for  this  book.  In  other  and  more 
expansive  days,  when  you  could  look  at  a  mag- 
num without  flushing  and  at  a  cheroot  without 
turning  white,  you  supplied  me  with  most  of  the 
material.  Take  it  back  again — would  that  I 
could  have  preserved  your  fetterless  speech  in 
the  telling — take  it  back,  and  by  your  slippered 
hearth  read  it  to  the  late  Miss  Deercourt.  She 
will  not  be  any  the  more  willing  to  receive  my 
cards,  but  she  will  admire  you  immensely,  and 
you,  I  feel  sure,  will  love  me.  You  may  even 
invite  me  to  another  very  bad  dinner — at  the 
Club,  which,  as  you  and  your  wife  know,  is  a 
safe  neutral  ground  for  the  entertainment  of  wild 
asses.  Then,  my  very  dear  hypocrite,  we  shall 
be  quits. 

Yours  always, 

RUDYARD  KIPLING. 
P.  S. — On  second  thoughts   I  should   recom- 
mend you  to  keep  the  book  away  from  Mrs. 
Mafflin. 


POOR  DEAR  MAMMA 


POOR  DEAR  MAMMA 

The  wild  hawk  to  the  wind-swept  sky, 

The  deer  to  the  wholesome  wold, 
And  the  heart  of  a  man  to  the  heart  of  a  maid, 

As  it  was  in  the  days  of  old. 

Gypsy  Song. 

Scene. — Interior  of  Miss  Minnie  Threegan's  led' 
room  at  Simla.     Miss  Threegan,  in  window- 
seat,  turning  over  a  drawerfiil  of  things.    Miss 
Emma  Deercourt,  bosom-friend,  "who  has  come 
to  spend  the  day,  sitting  on  the  bed,  manipulat- 
ing the  bodice  of  a  ballroom  frock  and   a 
bunch  of  artificial  lilies  of  the  valley.     Time, 
5 130  p.  M.  on  a  hot  May  afternoon. 
Miss  Deercourt.     And /?^  said:  "I  s,\\dX\  never 
forget  this  dance,"  and,  of  course,  I  said:  "Oh! 
how   can  you  be  so  silly!"     Do  you  think  he 
meant  anything,  dear? 

Miss  Threegan.  {Extracting  long  lavender  silk 
stocking  from  the  rubbish.)  You  know  him  bet- 
ter than  /  do. 

Miss  D.  Oh,  do  be  sympathetic,  Minnie!  I'm 
sure  he  does.  At  least  I  would  be  sure  if  he 
wasn't  always  riding  with  that  odious  Mrs. 
Hagan. 

II 


12  Poor  Dear  Mamma 

Miss  T.  I  suppose  so.  How  does  one  manage 
to  dance  through  one's  heels  first  ?  Look  at  this 
— isn't  it  shameful  ?  {Spreads  stocking-heel  on 
open  hand  for  inspection.) 

Miss  D.  Never  mind  that!  You  can't  mend 
it.  Help  me  with  this  hateful  bodice.  I've  run 
the  string  so,  and  I've  run  the  string  so,  and  I 
can't  make  the  fulness  come  right.  Where  would 
you  put  this  .^    {Waves  lilies  of  the  valley.) 

Miss  T.  As  high  up  on  the  shoulder  as  pos- 
sible. 

Miss  D.  Am  I  quite  tall  enough  ?  I  know  it 
makes  May  Olger  look  lop-sided. 

Miss  T.  Yes,  but  May  hasn't  your  shoulders. 
Hers  are  like  a  hock-bottle. 

Bearer.  {Rapping  at  door.)  Captain  Sahib 
aya. 

Miss  D.  {Jumping  up  wildly,  and  hunting  for 
body,  which  she  has  discarded  owing  to  the  heat 
of  the  day.)  Captain  Sahib!  What  Captain 
Sahib }  Oh,  good  gracious,  and  I'm  only  half 
dressed!    Well,  I  sha'n't  bother. 

Miss  T.  {Calmly.)  You  needn't.  It  isn't  for 
us.  That's  Captain  Gadsby.  He  is  going  for  a 
ride  with  Mamma.  He  generally  comes  five 
days  out  of  the  seven. 

Agonized  Voice.  {From  an  inner  apartment.') 
Minnie,  run  out  and  give  Captain  Gadsby  some 
tea,  and  tell  him  I  shall  be  ready  in  ten  minutes; 


Poor  Dear  Mamma  13 

and,  O  Minnie,  come  to  me  an  instant,  there's  a 
dear  girl ! 

Miss  T.  Oil,  bother!  {Aloud.)  Very  well. 
Mamma. 

Exit,  and  reappears,  after  five  minutes, 
flushed,  and  rubbing  her  fingers. 

Miss  D.     You  look  pink.    What  has  happened  ? 

Miss  T.  (///  a  stage  whisper.')  A  twenty-four- 
inch  waist,  and  she  won't  let  it  out.  Where  are 
my  bangles  ?  {Rummages  on  the  toilet-table,  and 
dabs  at  her  hair  with  a  brush  in  the  interval.) 

Miss  D.  Who  is  this  Captain  Gadsby  ?  I 
don't  think  I've  met  him. 

Miss  T.  You  must  have.  He  belongs  to  the 
Harrar  set.  I've  danced  with  him,  but  I've  never 
talked  to  him.  He's  a  big  yellow  man,  just  like 
a  newly-hatched  chicken,  with  an  e-normous 
moustache.  He  walks  like  this  {imitates  Cavalry 
swagger),  and  he  goes  "Ha — Hmmm!"  deep 
down  in  his  throat  when  he  can't  think  of  any- 
thing to  say.     Mamma  likes  him.     I  don't. 

Miss  D.  {Abstractedly.)  Does  he  wax  that 
moustache  } 

Miss  T.  {Busy  with  powder-puff.)  Yes,  I  think 
so.     Why  ? 

Miss  D.  {Bending  over  the  bodice  and  sewing 
furiously.)    Oh,  nothing — only  — 

Miss  T.  {Sternly.)  Only  what?  Out  with  it, 
Emma. 


14  Poor  Dear  Mamma 

Miss  D.  Well,  May  Olger — she's  engaged  to 
Mr.  Charteris,  you  know — said — Promise  you 
won't  repeat  this  ? 

Miss  T.     Yes,  I  promise.     What  did  she  say  ? 
Miss  D.     That — that  being  kissed  {liith  a  rush') 
by  a  man  who  didn't  wax  his  moustache  was — 
like  eating  an  egg  without  salt. 

Miss  T.  {At  her  full  height,  with  crushing 
scorn.)  May  Olger  is  a  horrid,  nasty  Thing,  and 
you  can  tell  her  I  said  so.  I'm  glad  she  doesn't 
belong  to  my  set — 1  must  go  and  feed  this  man  ! 
Do  I  look  presentable  ? 

Miss  D.  Yes,  perfectly.  Be  quick  and  hand 
him  over  to  your  Mother,  and  then  we  can  talk. 
/  shall  listen  at  the  door  to  hear  what  you  say  to 
him. 

Miss  T,  'Sure  I  don't  care.  Vm  not  afraid  of 
Captain  Gadsby. 

In  proof  of  this  sii'ings  into  the  drawing- 
room  with  a  mannish  stride  followed  by 
two  short  steps,  which  produces  the  ef- 
fect of  a  restive  horse  entering.     Misses 
Captain  Gadsby,   who  is  sitting  in  the 
shadow  of  the  window-curtain,  andga^es 
round  helplessly. 
Captain  Gadsby.     (Aside.)   The  filly,  by  Jove  I 
'Must  ha'  picked  up  that  action  from  the  sire. 
(Aloud,  rising.)    Good  evening,  Miss  Threegan. 
MissT.  (Conscious  that  she  is  Jiushing.)  Good 


Poor  Dear  Mamma  15 

evening,  Captain  Gadsby.  Mamma  told  me  to 
say  that  she  will  be  ready  in  a  few  minutes. 
Won't  you  have  some  tea?  {Aside.)  1  hope 
Mamma  will  be  quick.  What  am,  1  to  say  to  the 
creature }  {Aloud  and  abruptly.)  Milk  and 
sugar  } 

Capt.  G.  No  sugar,  tha-anks,  and  very  little 
milk.     Ha-Hmmm. 

Miss  T.  (  Aside.)  If  he's  going  to  do  that, 
I'm  lost.     I  shall  laugh.     I  ^//oty  I  shall! 

Capt.  G.  {Pulling  at  his  moustache  and 
watching  it  sideways  down  his  nose.)  Ha-Hmmm. 
{Aside.)  'Wonder  what  the  little  beast  can  talk 
about.     'Must  make  a  shot  at  it. 

Miss  T.  {Aside.)  Oh,  this  is  agonizing.  I 
mtist  say  something. 

Both  Together.     Have  you  been  — 

Capt.  G.  I  beg  your  pardon.  You  were  going 
to  say  — 

Miss  T.   {IVho  has  been  watching  the  moustache 
with  awed  fascination.)    Won't  you  have  some 
eggs  ? 

Capt.  G.  {Looking  bewilderedly  at  the  tea- 
table.)  Eggs!  {Aside.)  O  Hades!  She  must 
have  a  nursery-tea  at  this  hour.  S'pose  they've 
wiped  her  mouth  and  sent  her  to  me  while  the 
Mother  is  getting  on  her  duds.  {Aloud.)  No, 
thanks. 

Miss  T.    {Crimson   with    confusion.)    Oh!    \ 


l6  Poor  Dear  Mamma 

didn't  mean  that.  I  wasn't  thinking  of  mou— 
eggs  for  an  instant.  I  mean  salt.  Won't  you 
have  some  sa— sweets?  {Aside.)  He'll  think 
me  a  raving  lunatic.  I  wish  Mamma  would 
come. 

Capt.  G.  {Aside.)  It  was  a  nursery-tea  and 
she's  ashamed  of  it.  By  Jove!  She  doesn't  look 
half  bad  when  she  colors  up  like  that.  {Aloud, 
helping  himself  from  the  dish.)  Have  you  seen 
those  new  chocolates  at  Peliti's  ? 

Miss  T.  No,  1  made  these  myself.  What  are 
they  like  ? 

Capt.  G.  These!  D^-licious.  {Aside.)  And 
that's  a  fact. 

Miss  T.  {Aside.)  Oh,  bother!  he'll  think  I'm 
fishing  for  compliments.  {Aloud.)  No,  Peliti's 
of  course. 

Capt.  G.  {Enthusiastically.)  Not  to  compare 
with  these.  How  d'you  make  them?  I  can't 
get  my  khansamah  to  understand  the  simplest 
thing  beyond  mutton  and  fowl. 

Miss  T.  Yes?  I'm  not  a  khansamah,  you 
know.  Perhaps  you  frighten  him.  You  should 
never  frighten  a  servant.  He  loses  his  head.  It's 
a  very  bad  policy. 

Capt.  G.     He's  so  awf'ly  stupid. 

Miss  T.  {Folding  her  hands  in  her  lap.)  You 
should  call  him  quietly  and  say:  " O khansamah 
jee!" 


Poor  Dear  Mamma  17 

Capt.  G.  {Getting interested.')  Yes?  (Aside.) 
Fancy  that  little  featherweight  saying,  "O  khan- 
samah  jee"  to  my  bloodthirsty  Mir  Khan! 

Miss  T.  Then  you  should  explain  the  dinner, 
dish  by  dish. 

Capt.  G.     But  I  can't  speak  the  vernacular. 

Miss  T.  {Patroniiingly.)  You  should  pass  the 
Higher  Standard  and  try. 

Capt.  G.  I  have,  but  I  don't  seem  to  be  any 
the  wiser.     Are  you  } 

Miss  T.  I  never  passed  the  Higher  Standard. 
But  the  khansamah  is  very  patient  with  me.  He 
doesn't  get  angry  when  I  talk  about  sheep's  topees, 
or  order  matinds  of  grain  when  I  mean  seers. 

Capt.  G.  {Aside  with  intense  indignation.) 
I'd  like  to  see  Mir  Khan  being  rude  to  that  girl! 
Hullo!  Steady  the  Buflfs!  {Aloud.)  And  do 
you  understand  about  horses,  too  ? 

Miss  T.  A  little — not  very  much.  I  can't  doc- 
tor them,  but  I  know  what  they  ought  to  eat, 
and  I  am  in  charge  of  our  stable. 

Capt.  G.  Indeed!  You  might  help  me  then. 
What  ought  a  man  to  give  his  sais  in  the  Hills  ? 
My  ruffian  says  eight  rupees,  because  everything 
is  so  dear. 

Miss  T.  Six  rupees  a  month,  and  one  rupee 
Simla  allowance — neither  more  nor  less.  And  a 
grass-cut  gets  six  rupees.  That's  better  than 
buying  grass  in  the  bazar. 


1 8  Poor  Dear  Mamma 

Capt.  G.     {Admiringly.')  How  do  you  know? 

Miss  T.     I  have  tried  both  ways. 

Capt.  G.  Do  you  ride  much,  then?  I've 
never  seen  you  on  the  Mall. 

Miss  T.  {Aside.)  I  haven't  passed  him  more 
than  fifty  times.     {Aloud.)    Nearly  every  day. 

Capt.  G.  By  Jove!  1  didn't  know  that.  Ha- 
Hmmm!  {Pulls  at  his  moustache  and  is  silent 
for  forty  seconds.) 

Miss  T.  {Desperately,  and  wondering  what 
will  happen  next.)  It  looks  beautiful.  I  shouldn't 
touch  it  if  I  were  you.  {Aside.)  It's  all  Mamma's 
fault  for  not  coming  before.     I  will  be  rude! 

Capt.  G.  {Bronzing  tinder  the  tan  and  bring- 
ing down  his  hand  very  quickly.)  Eh!  Wha-at! 
Oh,  yes!  Ha!  Ha!  {Laughs uneasily.)  {Aside.) 
Well,  of  all  the  dashed  cheek!  1  never  had  a 
woman  say  that  to  me  yet.  She  must  be  a  cool 
hand  or  else  —  Ah!  that  nursery-tea! 

Voice  FROM  THE  Unknown.  Tchk!  Tchk!  Tchk! 

Capt.  G.     Good  gracious!    What's  that? 

Miss  T.  The  dog,  I  think.  {Aside.)  Emma 
has  been  listening,  and  I'll  never  forgive  her! 

Capt.  G.  {Aside.)  They  don't  keep  dogs  here. 
{Aloud.)    'Didn't  sound  like  a  dog,  did  it? 

Miss  T.  Then  it  must  have  been  the  cat.  Let's 
go  into  the  veranda.  What  a  lovely  evening  it  is! 
Steps  into  veranda  and  looks  out  across  the 
hills  into  sunset.     The  Captain  follows. 


Poor  Dear  Mamma  19 

Capt.  G.  {Aside.")  Superb  eyes!  I  wonder 
that  I  never  noticed  them  before!  (Aloud.) 
There's  going  to  be  a  dance  at  Viceregal  Lodge 
on  Wednesday.     Can  you  spare  me  one  ? 

Miss  T.  {Shortly.)  No!  I  don't  want  any  of 
your  charity-dances.  You  only  ask  me  because 
Mamma  told  you  to.  I  hop  and  I  bump.  You 
know  I  do! 

Capt.  G.  {Aside.)  That's  true,  but  little  girls 
shouldn't  understand  these  things.  {Aloud.) 
No,  on  my  word,  1  don't.  You  dance  beauti- 
fully. 

Miss  T.  Then  why  do  you  always  stand  out 
after  half  a  dozen  turns .?  I  thought  officers  in 
the  Army  didn't  tell  fibs. 

Capt.  G.  It  wasn't  a  fib,  believe  me.  I  really 
do  want  the  pleasure  of  a  dance  with  you. 

Miss  T.  {Wickedly.)  Why?  Won't  Mamma 
dance  with  you  any  more .? 

Capt.  G.  {More  earnestly  than  the  necessity 
demands.)  I  wasn't  thinking  of  your  Mother. 
{Aside.)    You  little  vixen! 

Miss  T.  {Still  looking  out  of  the  window. )  Eh  ? 
Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon.  I  was  thinking  of  some- 
thing else. 

Capt.  G.  {Aside.)  Well!  I  wonder  what  she'll 
say  next.  I've  never  known  a  woman  treat  me 
like  this  before.  I  might  be — Dash  it,  I  might  be 
an  Infantry  subaltern !    {Aloud.)   Oh,  please  don't 


20  Poor  Dear  Mamma 

trouble.  I'm  not  worth  thinking  about.  Isn't 
your  Mother  ready  yet  '^ 

Miss  T.  I  should  think  so;  but  promise  me, 
Captain  Gadsby,  you  won't  take  poor  dear 
Mamma  twice  round  Jakko  any  more.  It  tires 
her  so. 

Capt.  G.     She  says  that  no  exercise  tires  her. 

Miss  T.  Yes,  but  she  suffers  afterward.  You 
don't  know  what  rheumatism  is,  and  you  oughtn't 
to  keep  her  out  so  late,  when  it  gets  chill  in  the 
evenings. 

Capt.  G.  {Aside.)  Rheumatism.  I  thought 
she  came  off  her  horse  rather  in  a  bunch.  Whew! 
One  lives  and  learns.  {Aloud.)  I'm  sorry  to 
hear  that.     She  hasn't  mentioned  it  to  me. 

Miss  T.  {Flurried.)  Of  course  not!  Poor 
dear  Mamma  never  would.  And  you  mustn't 
say  that  1  told  you  either.  Promise  me  that  you 
won't.  Oh,  Captain  Gadsby,  promise  me  you 
won't! 

Capt.  G.  I  am  dumb,  or — I  shall  be  as  soon 
as  you've  given  me  that  dance,  and  another — if 
you  can  trouble  yourself  to  think  about  me  for  a 
minute. 

Miss  T.  But  you  won't  like  it  one  little  bit. 
You'll  be  awfully  sorry  afterward. 

Capt.  G.  I  shall  like  it  above  all  things,  and  I 
shall  only  be  sorry  that  1  didn't  get  more.  {Aside.') 
Now  what  in  the  world  am  1  saying  ? 


Poor  Dear  Mamma  21 

Miss  T.  Very  well.  You  will  have  only  your- 
self to  thank  if  your  toes  are  trodden  on.  Shall 
we  say  Seven  } 

Capt.  G.  And  Eleven.  {Aside.')  She  can't 
be  more  than  eight  stone,  but,  even  then,  it's  an 
absurdly  small  foot.  {Looks  at  his  own  riding 
boots.) 

Miss  T.  They're  beautifully  shiny.  I  can  al- 
most see  my  face  in  them. 

Capt.  G.  I  was  thinking  whether  I  should 
have  to  go  on  crutches  for  the  rest  of  my  life  if 
you  trod  on  my  toes. 

Miss  T.  Very  likely.  Why  not  change  Eleven 
for  a  square  ? 

Capt.  G.  No,  please!  I  want  them  both 
waltzes.     Won't  you  write  them  down  ? 

Miss  T.  /  don't  get  so  many  dances  that  I 
shall  confuse  them.     You  will  be  the  offender. 

Capt.  G.  Wait  and  see!  {Aside.)  She  doesn't 
dance  perfectly,  perhaps,  but  — 

Miss  T.  Your  tea  must  have  got  cold  by  this 
time.     Won't  you  have  another  cup  ? 

Capt.  G.  No,  thanks.  Don't  you  think  it's 
pleasanter  out  in  the  veranda  ?  {Aside.)  I  never 
saw  hair  take  that  color  in  the  sunshine  before. 
{Aloud.)    It's  like  one  of  Dicksee's  pictures. 

Miss  T.  Yes!  It's  a  wonderful  sunset,  isn't 
it  ?  {Bluntly.)  But  what  do  you  know  about 
Dicksee's  pictures  ? 


22  Poor  Dear  Mamma 

Capt.  G.  I  go  Home  occasionally.  And  1 
used  to  know  the  Galleries.  (Nervously.)  You 
mustn't  think  me  only  a  Philistine  with — a  mous- 
tache. 

Miss  T.  Don't!  PI  ease  don' V.  I'm  50  sorry  for 
what  I  said  then.  1  was  horribly  rude.  It  slipped 
out  before  I  thought.  Don't  you  know  the  temp- 
tation to  say  frightful  and  shocking  things  just 
for  the  mere  sake  of  saying  them  ?  I'm  afraid  \ 
gave  way  to  it. 

Capt.  G.  {Watching  the  girl  as  she  flushes.) 
I  think  I  know  the  feeling.  It  would  be  terrible 
if  we  all  yielded  to  it,  wouldn't  it  ?  For  instance, 
I  might  say  — 

Poor  Dear  Mamma.  (Entering,  habited,  hatted, 
and  booted.)  Ah,  Captain  Gadsby?  'Sorry  to 
keep  you  waiting.  'Hope  you  haven't  been  bored. 
'My  little  girl  been  talking  to  you  ? 

Miss  T.  (/I side.)  I'm  not  sorry  I  spoke  about 
the  rheumatism.  I'm  not!  I'm  not!  I  only 
wish  I'd  mentioned  the  corns  too. 

Capt.  G.  (Aside.)  What  a  shame!  I  won- 
der how  old  she  is.  It  never  occurred  to  me  be- 
fore. (Aloud.)  We've  been  discussing  ''Shakes- 
peare and  the  musical  glasses  "  in  the  veranda. 

Miss  T.  (Aside.)  Nice  man!  He  knows  that 
quotation.  He  isn't -a  Philistine  with  a  moustache. 
(Aloud.)  Good-bye,  Captain  Gadsby.  (Aside.) 
What  a  huge  hand  and  what  a.  squeeze!     I  don't 


Poor  Dear  Mamma  23 

suppose  he  meant  it,  but  he  has  driven  the  rings 
into  my  fingers. 

Poor  Dear  Mamma.  Has  Vermillion  come 
round  yet.?  Oh,  yes!  Captain  Gadsby,  don't 
you  think  that  the  saddle  is  too  far  forward? 
{They  pass  into  the  front  veranda.) 

Capt.  G.  {Aside.)  How  the  dickens  should 
I  know  what  she  prefers  ?  She  told  me  that  she 
doted  on  horses.     {Aloud.)    I  think  it  is. 

Miss  T.  {Coming  out  into  front  veranda.) 
Oh!  Bad  Buldoo!  1  must  speak  to  him  for  this. 
He  has  taken  up  the  curb  two  links,  and  Vermil- 
lion hates  that.  {Passes  out  and  to  horse's 
head.) 

Capt.  G.     Let  me  do  it! 

Miss  T.  No,  Vermillion  understands  me. 
Don't  you,  old  man  ?  {Looses  curb-chain  skil- 
fully, and  pats  horse  on  nose  and  throttle.)  Poor 
Vermillion !  Did  they  want  to  cut  his  chin  off  ? 
There! 

Captain  Gadsby  watches  the  interlude  with 
undisguised  admiration. 

Poor  Dear  Mamma.  {Tartly  to  M\s,s,T  .)  You've 
forgotten  your  guest,  I  think,  dear. 

Miss  T.  Good  gracious!  So  I  have!  Good- 
bye.    {Retreats  indoors  hastily.) 

Poor  Dear  Mamma.  {Bunching  reins  infingen 
hampered  by  too  tight  gauntlets.)  Captain 
Gadsby  I 


24  Poor  Dear  Mamma 

Captain  Gadsby  stoops  and  makes  the  foot- 
rest.     Poor  Dear  Mamma  blunders,  halts 
too  long,  and  breaks  through  it. 
Capt.  G.     {Aside.)     Can't  hold  up  eleven  stone 
forever.     It's    all    your    rheumatism.      {Aloud.) 
Can't  imagine  why  I  was  so  clumsy.     {Aside.) 
Now  Little  Featherweight  would  have  gone  up 
like  a  bird. 

They  ride  out  of  the  garden.     The  Captain 
falls  back. 
Capt.  G.     {Aside.)    How  that  habit  catches 
her  under  the  arms!     Ugh! 

Poor  Dear  Mamma.  {With  the  worn  smile  of 
sixteen  seasons,  the -worse  for  exchange.)  You're 
dull  this  afternoon,  Captain  Gadsby. 

Capt.  G.     {Spurring  up  wearily.)    Why  did 
you  keep  me  waiting  so  long? 
Et  ccetera,  et  ccetera,  et  ccetera, 

(an  interval  of  three  weeks.) 

Gilded  Youth.     {Sitting  on  railings  opposite 
Town  Hall.)    Hullo,  Gaddy!     'Been  trotting  out 
the  Gorgonzola !    We  all  thought  it  was  the  Gor- 
gon you're  mashing. 
Capt.   G.     (With  withering  emphasis.)    You 

young  cub!    What  the  does  it  matter  to 

you  ? 

Proceeds  to  read  Gilded  Youth  a  lecture 
on    discretion   and  deportment,   which 


Poor  Dear  Mamma  25 

crumbles  latter  like  a  Chinese  Lantern. 
Departs  fuming. 

(further  interval  of  five  weeks.) 

Scene. — Exterior  of  New  Simla  Library  on  a 
foggy  evening.    Miss  Threegan  and  Miss  Deer- 
court  meet  among  the  'rickshaws.    Miss  T.  is 
carrying  a  bundle  of  books  under  her  left  arm. 
Miss  D.     {Level  intonation.')    Well  ? 
Miss  T.     {Ascending  intonation.)    Well? 
Miss  D.     {Capturing   her  friend's    left  arm, 
taking  away  all  the  books,  placing  books  in  'rick- 
shaw, returning  to  arm,  securing  hand  by  third 
finger  and  investigating.)    Well!    You  bad  girl! 
And  you  never  told  me. 

Miss  T.  {Demurely.)  He — he — he  only  spoke 
yesterday  afternoon. 

Miss  D.  Bless  you,  dear!  And  I'm  to  be 
bridesmaid,  aren't  I  ?  You  know  you  promised 
ever  so  long  ago. 

Miss  T.     Of  course.     I'll  tell  you  all  about  it 
to-morrow.     {Gets  into  'rickshaw.)    O  Emma! 
Miss  D.     {With  intense  interest.)    Yes,  dear? 
Miss  T.     {Piano.)    It's  quite  true — about — the 

Miss  D.     What  egg  ? 

Miss  T.  {Pianissimo  prestissimo.)  The  egg 
without  the  salt.  {Forte.)  Chalo  ghar  ko  jaldi, 
jhampanil    {Go  home,  Jhampani.) 


\- 


THE  WORLD  WITHOUT 


THE  WORLD  WITHOUT 

Certain  people  of  importance. 

Scene. — Smoking-room  of  the  Degchi  Club. 
Time,  10:30  p.  m.  of  a  stuffy  night  in  the  Rains. 
Four  men  dispersed  in  picturesque  attitudes 
and  easy-chairs.  To  these  enter  Blayne  of  the 
Irregular  Moguls,  in  evening  dress. 

Blayne.  Phew!  The  Judge  ought  to  be 
hanged  in  his  own  store-godown.  Hi,  khitmat- 
gar  !  Poor  a  whiskey-peg,  to  take  the  taste  out 
of  my  mou*^ 

CuRTiss.  {Koyai  Artillery.)  'i liars  it,  is  it? 
What  the  deuce  made  you  dine  at  the  Judge's  ? 
You  know  his  bandobust. 

Blayne.  Thought  it  couldn't  be  worse  than 
the  Club,  but  I'll  swear  he  buys  ullaged  liquor 
and  doctors  it  with  gin  and  ink  {looking  round 
the  room.)    Is  this  all  of  you  to-night  ? 

DooNE.  (P.JV.D.)  Anthony  was  called  out 
at  dinner.     Mingle  had  a  pain  in  his  tummy. 

CuRTiss.  Miggy  dies  of  cholera  once  a  week  in 
the  Rains,  and  gets  drunk  on  chlorodyne  in  be- 
tween. 'Good  little  chap,  though.  Any  one  at 
the  Judge's,  Blayne  ? 


30  The  World  Without 

Blayne.  Cockley  and  his  mensahib  looking 
awfully  white  and  fagged.  'Female  girl — couldn't 
catch  the  name — on  her  way  to  the  Hills,  under 
the  Cockleys'  charge— the  Judge,  and  Markyn 
fresh  from  Simla — disgustingly  fit. 

CuRTiss.  Good  Lord,  how  truly  magnificentl 
Was  there  enough  ice  ?  When  I  mangled  gar- 
bage there  I  got  one  whole  lump — nearly  as  big 
as  a  walnut.  What  had  Markyn  to  say  for  him- 
self? 

Blayne.  'Seems  that  every  one  is  having  a 
fairly  good  time  up  there  in  spite  of  the  rain.  By 
Jove,  that  reminds  me!  1  know  I  hadn't  come 
across  just  for  the  pleasure  of  your  society. 
News!    Great  news!     Markyn  told  me. 

DooNE.    Who's  dead  now  ? 

Blayne.  No  one  that  I  know  of;  but  Caddy's 
hooked  at  last! 

Dropping  Chorus.  How  much  }  The  Devill 
Markyn  was  pulling  your  leg.     Not  Caddy! 

Blayne.  {Humming.)  "Yea,  verily,  verily, 
verily!  Verily,  verily,  I  say  unto  thee."  Theo- 
dore, the  gift  o'  God!  Our  Phillup!  It's  been 
given  out  up  above. 

Mackesy.  (Barrtster-at-Law.)  Huh!  Women 
will  give  out  anything.  What  does  accused 
say? 

Blayne.  Markyn  told  me  that  he  congratu- 
lated him   warily — one  hand   held  out,   t'other 


The   JVorld   Without  31 

ready  to  guard.  Gaddy  turned  pink  and  said  it 
was  so. 

CuRTiss.  Poor  old  Gaddy!  They  all  do  it. 
Who's  she  ?    Let's  hear  the  details. 

Blayne.  She's  a  girl — daughter  of  a  Colonel 
Somebody. 

DooNE.  Simla's  stiff  with  Colonels'  daughters. 
Be  more  explicit. 

Blayne.  Wait  a  shake.  What  was  her  name  } 
Three — something.     Three  — 

CuRTiss.  Stars,  perhaps.  Gaddy  knows  that 
brand. 

Blayne.    Threegan — Minnie  Threegan. 

Mackesy.  Threegan!  Isn't  she  a  little  bit  of 
a  girl  with  red  hair  } 

Blayne.     'Bout  that — from  what  Markyn  said. 

Mackesy.  Then  I've  met  her.  She  was  at 
Lucknow  last  season.  'Owned  a  permanently 
juvenile  Mamma,  and  danced  damnably.  1  say, 
Jervoise,  you  knew  the  Threegans,  didn't  you  ? 

Jervoise.  {Civilian  of  twenty-five  years  service, 
waking  up  from  his  do^e.)  Eh  ?  What's  that  ? 
Knew  who  ?  How  ?  1  thought  I  was  at  Home, 
confound  you! 

Mackesy.  The  Threegan  girl's  engaged,  so 
Blayne  says. 

Jervoise.  {Slowly.)  Engaged — engaged!  Bless 
my  soul!  I'm  getting  an  old  man!  Little  Minnie 
Threegan  engaged.     It  was  only  the  other  day  I 


32  The   World   Without 

went  home  with  them  in  the  Siirat — no,  the 
Massilia — and  she  was  crawling  about  on  her 
hands  and  knees  among  the  ayahs.  'Used  to  call 
me  the  "  Tick  Tack  Sahib"  because  1  showed 
her  my  watch.  And  that  was  in  Sixty-Seven — 
no,  Seventy.  Good  God,  how  time  flies!  I'm 
an  old  man.  I  remember  when  Threegan  mar- 
ried Miss  Derwent — daughter  of  old  Hooky  Der- 
went — but  that  was  before  your  time.  And  so 
the  little  baby's  engaged  to  have  a  little  baby  of 
her  own!    Who's  the  other  fool  ? 

Mackesy.     Gadsby  of  the  Pink  Hussars. 

Jervoise.  'Never  met  him.  Threegan  lived  in 
debt,  married  in  debt,  and'll  die  in  debt.  'Must 
be  glad  to  get  the  girl  off  his  hands. 

Blayne.  Gaddy  has  money — lucky  devil. 
Place  at  Home,  too. 

DooNE.  He  comes  of  first-class  stock.  'Can't 
quite  understand  his  being  caught  by  a  Colonel's 
daughter,  and  (^looking  cautiously  round  room) 
Black  Infantry  at  that!  No  offence  to  you, 
Blayne. 

Blayne.     {Stiffly.)    Not  much,  tha-anks. 

CuRTiss.  {Quoting  motto  of  Irregular  Moguls.') 
"We  are  what  we  are,"  eh,  old  man?  But 
Gaddy  was  such  a  superior  animal  as  a  rule. 
Why  didn't  he  go  Home  and  pick  his  wife 
there  ? 

Mackesy.     They  are  all  alike  when  they  come 


The   World  Without 


33 


to  the  turn  into  the  straight.  About  thirty  a  man 
begins  to  get  sick  of  living  alone  — 

CuRTiss.  And  of  the  eternal  muttony-chap  in 
the  morning. 

DooNE.  It's  a  dead  goat  as  a  rule,  but  go  on, 
Mackesy. 

Mackesy.  If  a  man's  once  taken  that  way 
nothing  will  hold  him.  Do  you  remember  Benoit 
of  your  service,  Doone  ?  They  transferred  him 
to  Tharanda  when  his  time  came,  and  he  married 
a  platelayer's  daughter,  or  something  of  that 
kind.     She  was  the  only  female  about  the  place. 

Doone.  Yes,  poor  brute.  That  smashed 
Benoit's  chances  of  promotion  altogether.  Mrs. 
Benoit  used  to  ask:  "Was  you  goin'  to  the  dance 
this  evenin'?" 

CuRTiss.  Hang  it  all!  Gaddy  hasn't  married 
beneath  him.  There's  no  tar-brush  in  the  family, 
I  suppose. 

Jervoise.  Tar-brush!  Not  an  anna.  You 
young  fellows  talk  as  though  the  man  was  do- 
ing the  girl  an  honor  in  marrying  her.  You're 
all  too  conceited — nothing's  good  enough  for 
you. 

Blayne.  Not  even  an  empty  Club,  a  dam'  bad 
dinner  at  the  Judge's,  and  a  Station  as  sickly  as  a 
hospital.  You're  quite  right.  We're  a  set  of 
Sybarites. 

Doone.     Luxurious  dogs,  wallowing  in  — 


34  The   World   Without 

CuRTiss.  Prickly  heat  between  the  shoulders. 
I'm  covered  with  it.  Let's  hope  Beora  will  be 
cooler. 

Blayne.  Whew!  Are >'02/ ordered  into  camp, 
too  ?    I  thought  the  Gunners  had  a  clean  sheet. 

CuRTiss.  No,  worse  luck.  Two  cases  yester- 
day— one  died — and  if  we  have  a  third,  out  we 
go.     Is  there  any  shooting  at  Beora,  Doone? 

DooNE.  The  country's  under  water,  except 
the  patch  by  the  Grand  Trunk  Road.  I  was 
there  yesterday,  looking  at  a  bund,  and  came 
across  four  poor  devils  in  their  last  stage.  It's 
rather  bad  from  here  to  Kuchara. 

CuRTiss.  Then  we're  pretty  certain  to  have  a 
heavy  go  of  it.  Heigho!  I  shouldn't  mind 
changing  places  with  Gaddy  for  a  while.  'Sport 
with  Amaryllis  in  the  shade  of  the  Town  Hall, 
and  all  that.  Oh,  why  doesn't  somebody  come 
and  marry  me,  instead  of  letting  me  go  into 
cholera-camp  ? 

Mackesy.     Ask  the  Committee. 

CuRTiss.  You  ruffian!  You'll  stand  me  an- 
other peg  for  that.  Blayne,  what  will  you  take? 
Mackesy  is  fine  on  moral  grounds. .  Doone,  have 
you  any  preference  ? 

Doone.  Small  glass  Kiimmel,  please.  Excel- 
lent carminative,  these  days.  Anthony  told  me 
so. 

Mackesy.     {Signing  voucher  for  four  drinks.) 


The  World  Without  35 

Most  unfair  punishment.  I  only  thought  of 
Curtiss  as  Actaeon  being  chivied  round  the  billiard 
tables  by  the  nymphs  of  Diana, 

Blayne.  Curtiss  would  have  to  import  his 
nymphs  by  train.  Mrs.  Cockley's  the  only 
woman  in  the  Station.  She  won't  leave  Cockley, 
and  he's  doing  his  best  to  get  her  to  go. 

Curtiss.  Good,  indeed!  Here's  Mrs.  Cock- 
ley's  health.  To  the  only  wife  in  the  Station  and 
a  damned  brave  woman! 

Omnes.    {Drinking.)  A  damned  brave  woman! 

Blayne.  I  suppose  Gaddy  will  bring  his  wife 
here  at  the  end  of  the  cold  weather.  They  are 
going  to  be  married  almost  immediately,  I  be- 
lieve. 

Curtiss.  Gaddy  may  thank  his  luck  that  the 
Pink  Hussars  are  all  detachment  and  no  head- 
quarters this  hot  weather,  or  he'd  be  torn  from 
the  arms  of  his  love  as  sure  as  death.  Have  you 
ever  noticed  the  thorough-minded  way  British 
Cavalry  take  to  cholera  ?  It's  because  they  are 
so  expensive.  If  the  Pinks  had  stood  fast  here, 
they  would  have  been  out  in  camp  a  month  ago. 
Yes,  I  should  decidedly  like  to  be  Gaddy. 

Mackesy.  He'll  go  Home  after  he's  married, 
and  send  in  his  papers — see  if  he  doesn't, 

Blayne.  Why  shouldn't  he.?  Hasn't  he 
money  ?  Would  any  one  of  us  be  here  if  we 
weren't  paupers  ? 


^d  The   World   Without 

DooNE.  Poor  old  pauper!  What  has  become 
of  the  six  hundred  you  rooked  from  our  table  last 
month  ? 

Blayne.  It  took  unto  itself  wings.  I  think  an 
enterprising  tradesman  got  some  of  it,  and  a 
shroff  gobbled  the  rest — or  else  I  spent  it. 

CuRTiss.  Gaddy  never  had  dealings  with  a 
shroff  in  his  life. 

DooNE.  Virtuous  Gaddy !  If  /  had  three  thou- 
sand a  month,  paid  from  England,  I  don't  think 
I'd  deal  with  a  shroff  either. 

Mackesy.  (Yauiiing.)  Oh,  it's  a  sweet  life! 
1  wonder  whether  matrimony  would  make  it 
sweeter. 

CuRTiss.  Ask  Cockley — with  his  wife  dying 
by  inches! 

Blayne.  Go  home  and  get  a  fool  of  a  girl  to 
come  out  to — what  is  it  Thackeray  says? — "the 
splendid  palace  of  an  Indian  pro-consul." 

DooNE.  Which  reminds  me.  My  quarters 
leak  like  a  sieve.  1  had  fever  last  night  from 
sleeping  in  a  swamp.  And  the  worst  of  it  is, 
one  can't  do  anything  to  a  roof  till  the  Rains  are 
over. 

CuRTiss.  What's  wrong  with  you?  You 
haven't  eighty  rotting  Tommies  to  take  into  a 
running  stream. 

DooNE.  No:  but  I'm  mixed  boils  and  bad  lan- 
guage.    I'm  a  regular  Job  all  over  my  body.     It's 


The   IVorld  JVtfhout  37 

sheer  poverty   of  blood,    and   I   don't  see  any 
chance  of  getting  richer — either  way. 

Blayne.     Can't  you  take  leave  ? 

DooNE.  That's  the  pull  you  Army  men  have 
over  us.  Ten  days  are  nothing  in  your  sight.  I'm 
so  important  that  Government  can't  find  a  substi- 
tute if  I  go  av^ay.  Ye-es,  I'd  like  to  be  Gaddy, 
whoever  his  wife  may  be. 

CuRTiss,     You've  passed  the  turn  of  life  that 
Mackesy  was  speaking  of. 
•  DooNE.     Indeed  1  have,  but  I  never  yet  had  the 
brutality  to  ask  a  woman  to  share  my  life  out 
here. 

Blayne.  On  my  soul  I  believe  you're  right. 
I'm  thinking  of  Mrs.  Cockley.  The  woman's  an 
absolute  wreck. 

DooNE.  Exactly.  Because  she  stays  down 
here.  The  only  way  to  keep  her  fit  would  be  to 
send  her  to  the  Hills  for  eight  months — and  the 
same  with  any  woman.  I  fancy  I  see  myself 
taking  a  wife  on  those  terms. 

Mackesy.  With  the  rupee  at  one  and  sixpence. 
The  little  Doones  would  be  little  Dehra  Doones, 
with  a  fine  Mussoorie  chi-chi  anent  to  bring 
home  for  the  holidays. 

CuRTiss.  And  a  pair  of  be-ewtiful  sambhur- 
horns  for  Doone  to  wear,  free  of  expense,  pre- 
sented by  — 

Doone.    Yes,  it's  an  enchanting  prospect.    By 


jS  The   World  Without 

the  way,  the  rupee  hasn't  done  falling  yet.  The 
time  will  come  when  we  shall  think  ourselves 
lucky  if  we  only  lose  half  our  pay. 

CuRTiss.  Surely  a  third's  loss  enough.  Who 
gains  by  the  arrangement  ?  That's  what  I  want 
to  know. 

Blayne.  The  Silver  Question!  I'm  going  to 
bed  if  you  begin  squabbling.  Thank  Goodness, 
here's  Anthony — looking  like  a  ghost. 

Enter  Anthony,  Indian  Medical  Staff,  very 
white  and  tired. 

Anthony.  'Evening,  Blayne.  It's  raining  in 
sheets.  Whiskey  peg  lao,  hhitmatgar.  The 
roads  are  something  ghastly. 

CuRTiss.     How's  Mingle? 

Anthony.  Very  bad,  and  more  frightened.  I 
handed  him  over  to  Fewton.  Mingle  might  just 
as  well  have  called  him  in  the  first  place,  instead 
of  bothering  me. 

Blayne.  He's  a  nervous  little  chap.  'What 
has  he  got,  this  time  ? 

Anthony.  'Can't  quite  say.  A  very  bad 
tummy  and  a  blue  funk  so  far.  He  asked  me  at 
once  if  it  was  cholera,  and  I  told  him  not  to  be  a 
fool.     That  soothed  him. 

CuRTiss.  Poor  devil!  The  funk  does  half  the 
business  in  a  man  of  that  build. 

Anthony.  {Lighting  a  cheroot.)  I  firmly  be- 
lieve the  funk  will  kill  him  if  he  stays  down. 


The   World  Without  39 

You  know  the  amount  of  trouble  he's  been  giving 
Fewton  for  the  last  three  weeks.  He's  doing  his 
very  best  to  frighten  himself  into  the  grave. 

General  Chorus.  Poor  little  devil!  Why 
doesn't  he  get  away  ? 

Anthony.  'Can't.  He  has  his  leave  all  right, 
but  he's  so  dipped  he  can't  take  it,  and  I  don't 
think  his  name  on  paper  would  raise  four  annas. 
That's  in  confidence,  though. 

Mackesy.     All  the  Station  knows  it. 

Anthony.  **  I  suppose  I  shall  have  to  die  here," 
he  said,  squirming  all  across  the  bed.  He's  quite 
made  up  his  mind  to  Kingdom  Come.  And  I 
knozo  he  has  nothing  more  than  a  wet-weather 
tummy  if  he  could  only  keep  a  hand  on  himself. 

Blayne.  That's  bad.  That's  very  bad.  Poor 
little  Miggy.     Good  little  chap,  too.     I  say  — 

Anthony.     What  do  you  say  ? 

Blayne.  Well,  look  here — anyhow.  If  it's 
like  that — as  you  say — I  say  fifty. 

CuRTiss.     I  say  fifty. 

Mackesy.     I  go  twenty  better. 

Doone.  Bloated  Croesus  of  the  Bar!  I  say 
fifty.  Jervoise,  what  do  you  say?  Hi!  Wake 
up! 

Jervoise.     Eh  ?    What's  that  ?    What's  that  ? 

CuRTiss.  We  want  a  hundred  rupees  from 
you.  You're  a  bachelor  drawing  a  gigantic  in- 
come, and  there's  a  man  in  a  hole. 


40  The   World   Without 

Jervoise.     What  man  ?    Any  one  dead  ? 

Blayne.  No,  but  he'll  die  if  you  don't  give  the 
hundred.  Here!  Here's  a  peg-voucher.  You 
can  see  what  we've  signed  for,  and  Anthony's 
man  will  come  round  to-morrow  to  collect  it. 
So  there  will  be  no  trouble. 

Jervoise.  {Signing.)  One  hundred,  E.  M.  J. 
There  you  are  {feebly).  It  isn't  one  of  your 
jokes,  is  it  ? 

Blayne.  No,  it  really  is  wanted.  Anthony, 
you  were  the  biggest  poker-winner  last  week, 
and  you've  defrauded  the  tax-collector  too  long. 
Sign! 

Anthony.  Let's  see.  Three  fifties  and  a 
seventy — two  twenty — three  twenty — say  four 
hundred  and  twenty.  That'll  give  him  a  month 
clear  at  the  Hills.  Many  thanks,  you  men.  I'll 
send  round  the  chaprassi  to-morrow. 

CuRTiss.  You  must  engineer  his  taking  the 
stuff,  and  of  course  you  mustn't  — 

Anthony.  Of  course.  It  would  never  do. 
He'd  weep  with  gratitude  over  his  evening 
drink. 

Blayne.  That's  just  what  he  would  do,  damn 
him.  Oh!  I  say,  Anthony,  you  pretend  to 
know  everything.  Have  you  heard  about 
Gaddy  } 

Anthony.     No.     Divorce  Court  at  last? 

Blayne.     Worse.     He's  engaged! 


The   World   Without  41 

Anthony.     How  much  ?    He  can't  be! 

Blayne.  He  is.  He's  going  to  be  married  in  a 
few  weeks.  Markyn  told  me  at  the  Judge's  this 
evening.     It's  pukka. 

Anthony.  You  don't  say  so.?  Holy  Moses! 
There'll  be  a  shine  in  the  tents  of  Kedar. 

CuRTiss.     'Regiment  cut  up  rough,  think  you  ? 

Anthony.  'Don't  know  anything  about  the 
Regiment. 

Mackesy.    It  is  bigamy,  then  ? 

Anthony.  Maybe.  Do  you  mean  to  say  that 
you  men  have  forgotten,  or  is  there  more  charity 
in  the  world  than  1  thought } 

DooNE.  You  don't  look  pretty  when  you  are 
trying  to  keep  a  secret.     You  bloat.     Explain. 

Anthony.     Mrs.  Herriott! 

Blayne.  {After  a  long  pause,  to  the  room 
generally.)  It's  my  notion  that  we  are  a  set  of 
fools. 

Mackesy.  Nonsense.  That  business  was 
knocked  on  the  head  last  season.  Why,  young 
Mallard  — 

Anthony.  Mallard  was  a  candlestick,  paraded 
as  such.  Think  awhile.  Recollect  last  season 
and  the  talk  then.  Mallard  or  no  Mallard,  did 
Gaddy  ever  talk  to  any  other  woman  ? 

CuRTiss.  There's  something  in  that.  It  was 
slightly  noticeable  now  you  come  to  mention  it. 
But  she's  at  Naini  Tal  and  he's  at  Simla. 


42  The   World  IVithout 

Anthony.  He  had  to  go  to  Simla  to  look  after 
a  globe-trotter  relative  of  his — a  person  with  a 
title.     Uncle  or  aunt. 

Blayne.  And  there  he  got  engaged.  No  law 
prevents  a  man  growing  tired  of  a  woman. 

Anthony.  Except  that  he  mustn't  do  it  till 
the  woman  is  tired  of  him.  And  the  Herriott 
woman  was  not  that. 

CuRTiss.  She  may  be  now.  Two  months  of 
Naini  Tal  works  wonders. 

DooNE.  Curious  thing  how  some  women 
carry  a  Fate  with  them.  There  was  a  Mrs. 
Deegie  in  the  Central  Provinces  whose  men  in- 
variably fell  away  and  got  married.  It  became  a 
regular  proverb  with  us  when  1  was  down  there. 
I  remember  three  men  desperately  devoted  to 
her,  and  they  all,  one  after  another,  took  wives. 

CuRTiss.  That's  odd.  Now  I  should  have 
thought  that  Mrs.  Deegie's  influence  would  have 
led  them  to  take  other  men's  wives.  It  ought 
to  have  made  them  afraid  of  the  judgment  of 
Providence. 

Anthony.  Mrs.  Herriott  will  make  Gaddy 
afraid  of  something  more  than  the  judgment  of 
Providence,  I  fancy. 

Blayne.  Supposing  things  are  as  you  say, 
he'll  be  a  fool  to  face  her.  He'll  sit  tight  at 
Simla. 

Anthony.     'Shouldn't  be  a  bit  surprised  if  he 


The   World   Without  43 

went  off  to  Naini  to  explain.  He's  an  unaccount- 
able sort  of  man,  and  she's  likely  to  be  a  more 
than  unaccountable  woman. 

DooNE.  What  makes  you  take  her  character 
away  so  confidently  } 

Anthony.  Priiimm  tempus.  Gaddy  was  her 
first,  and  a  woman  doesn't  allow  her  first  man  to 
drop  away  without  expostulation.  She  justifies 
the  first  transfer  of  affection  to  herself  by  swear- 
ing that  it  is  forever  and  ever.     Consequently  — 

Blayne.  Consequently,  we  are  sitting  here  till 
past  one  o'clock,  talking  scandal  like  a  set  of 
Station  cats.  Anthony,  it's  all  your  fault.  We 
were  perfectly  respectable  till  you  came  in.  Go 
to  bed.     I'm  off.     Good-night  all. 

CuRTiss.  Past  one!  It's  past  two,  by  Jove, 
and  here's  the  hhit  coming  for  the  late  charge. 
Just  Heavens!  One,  two,  three,  four,  five  rupees 
to  pay  for  the  pleasure  of  saying  that  a  poor 
little  beast  of  a  woman  is  no  better  than  she 
should  be.  I'm  ashamed  of  myself.  Go  to  bed, 
you  slanderous  villains,  and  if  I'm  sent  to  Beora 
to-morrow,  be  prepared  to  hear  I'm  dead  before 
paying  my  card  account  1 


THE  TENTS  OF  KEDAR 


THE  TENTS  OF  KEDAR 

Only  why  should  it  be  with  pain  at  all 
Why  must  I  'twixt  the  leaves  of  coronal 

Put  any  kiss  of  pardon  on  thy  brow  ? 
Why  should  the  other  women  know  so  much, 
And  talk  together : — Such  the  look  and  such 

The  smile  he  used  to  love  with,  then  as  now. 
Any  Wife  to  any  Husband. 

Scene. — A  Naini  Tal  dinner  for  thirty-four. 
Plate,  wines,  crockery,  and  khitmatgars  care- 
fully calculated  to  scale  of  Rs.  6000  per  men- 
sem,  less  Exchange.  Table  split  lengthways  by 
bank  of  flowers. 

Mrs.  Herriott.  {After  conversation  has  risen 
to  proper  pitch.)  Ah!  'Didn't  see  you  in  the 
crush  in  the  drawing-room.  {Sotto  voce.)  Where 
have  you  been  all  this  while,  Pip  ? 

Captain  Gadsby.  ( Turning  from  regularly  or- 
dained dinner  partner  and  settling  hock  glasses.) 
Good  evening.  {Sotto  voce.)  Not  quite  so  loud 
another  time.  You've  no  notion  how  your  voice 
carries.  {Aside.)  So  much  for  shirking  the 
written  explanation.  It'll  have  to  be  a  verbal 
one  now.  Sweet  prospect!  How  on  earth  am 
I  to  tell  her  that  I  am  a  respectable,  engaged 
member  of  society  and  it's  all  over  between  us  ? 

47 


48  The  Tents  of  Kedar 

Mrs.  H.  I've  a  heavy  score  against  you. 
Where  were  you  at  the  Monday  Pop  ?  Where 
were  you  on  Tuesday  ?  Where  were  you  at  the 
Lamonts'  tennis  ?    I  was  looking  everywhere. 

Capt.  G.  For  me!  Oh,  I  was  alive  some- 
where, 1  suppose.  {Aside.)  It's  for  Minnie's 
sake,  but  it's  going  to  be  dashed  unpleasant. 

Mrs.  H.  Have  1  done  anything  to  offend  you? 
i  never  meant  it  if  I  have.  1  couldn't  help  going 
for  a  ride  with  the  Vaynor  man.  It  was  prom- 
ised a  week  before  you  came  up. 

Capt.  G.     I  didn't  know  — 

Mrs.  H.     It  really  was. 

Capt.  G.     Anything  about  it,  I  mean. 

Mrs.  H.  What  has  upset  you  to-day?  All 
these  days  ?  You  haven't  been  near  me  for  four 
whole  days — nearly  one  hundred  hours.  Was  it 
kind  of  you,  Pip  ?  And  I've  been  looking  for- 
ward so  much  to  your  coming. 

Capt.  G.     Have  you  ? 

Mrs.  H.  You  know  I  have!  I've  been  as  fool- 
ish as  a  schoolgirl  about  it.  I  made  a  little  cal- 
endar and  put  it  in  my  card-case,  and  every  time 
the  twelve  o'clock  gun  went  off  I  scratched  out  a 
square  and  said:  "That  brings  me  nearer  to  Pip. 
MvPip!" 

Capt.  G.  {With  an  uneasy  langh.)  What 
will  Mackler  think  if  you  neglect  him  so  ? 

Mrs.  H.    And  it  hasn't  brought  you  nearer. 


The  Tents  of  Kedar  49 

You  seem  farther  away  than  ever.  Are  you 
sulking  about  something  ?    I  know  your  temper. 

Capt.  G.    No. 

Mrs.  H.  Have  1  grown  old  in  the  last  few 
months,  then .?  {Reaches  forward  to  bank  of 
flowers  for  menu-card.) 

Partner  on  Left.  Allow  me.  {Hands  menu- 
card.  Mrs.  H.  keeps  her  arm  at  full  stretch  for 
three  seconds.) 

Mrs.  H.  {To partner.)  Oh,  thanks.  I  didn't 
see.  {Turns  right  again.)  Is  anything  in  me 
changed  at  all  ? 

Capt.  G.  For  Goodness'  sake  go  on  with  your 
dinner!  You  must  eat  something.  Try  one  of 
those  cutlet  arrangements.  {Aside.)  And  I 
fancied  she  had  good  shoulders,  once  upon  a 
time!    What  an  ass  a  man  can  make  of  himself! 

Mrs.  H.  {Helping  herself  to  a  paper  frill, 
seven  peas,  some  stamped  carrots  and  a  spoonful 
of  gravy.)  That  isn't  an  answer.  Tell  me 
whether  I  have  done  anything. 

Capt.  G.  {Aside.)  If  it  isn't  ended  here  there 
will  be  a  ghastly  scene  somewhere  else.  If  only 
I'd  written  to  her  and  stood  the  racket — at  long 
range!  {To  Khitmatgar.)  Han!  Simpkin  do. 
{Aloud.)    I'll  tell  you  later  on. 

Mrs.  H.  Tell  me  tww.  It  must  be  some  fool- 
ish misunderstanding,  and  you  know  that  there 
was  to  be  nothing  of  that  sort  between  us.    We, 


50  The  Tents  of  Kedar 

of  all  people  in  the  world,  can't  afford  it.  Is  it 
the  Vaynor  man,  and  don't  you  like  to  say  so  ? 
On  my  honor  — 

Capt.  G.  I  haven't  given  the  Vaynor  man  a 
thought. 

Mrs.  H.     But  how  d'you  know  that  /  haven't.^ 

Capt.  G.  (AstJe.)  Here's  my  chance  and 
may  the  Devil  help  me  through  with  it.  {Aloud 
and  measuredly.)  Believe  me,  I  do  not  care  how 
often  or  how  tenderly  you  think  of  the  Vaynor 
man. 

Mrs.  H.  I  wonder  if  you  mean  that. — Oh, 
what  is  the  good  of  squabbling  and  pretending 
to  misunderstand  when  you  are  only  up  for  so 
short  a  time  ?    Pip,  don't  be  a  stupid! 

Fol/ozi's  a  pause,  during  which  he  crosses 
his  left  leg  over  his  right  and  continues 
his  dinner. 

Capt.  G.  (///  anszi'er  to  the  thunderstorm  in 
her  eyes.)    Corns — my  worst. 

Mrs.  H,  Upon  my  word,  you  are  the  very 
rudest  man  in  the  world!     Ill  nrcer  do  it  again. 

Capt.  G.  (Aside.)  No,  I  dont  think  you 
will ;  but  1  wonder  what  you  will  do  before  it's 
all  over.  ( To  Khitmatgar.)  Thorah  iir  Sinipkin 
do. 

Mrs.  H.  Well!  Haven't  you  the  grace  to 
apologize,  bad  man  ? 

Capt.  G.     {Aside.)    I  mustn't  let  it  drift  back 


The  Tents  of  Kedar  51 

ncrw.  Trust  a  woman  for  being  as  blind  as  a  bat 
when  she  won't  see. 

Mrs.  H.  I'm  waiting:  or  would  you  hke  me 
to  dictate  a  form  of  apology  ? 

Capt.  G.  {Desperately.')  By  all  means  dic- 
tate. 

Mrs.  H.  {Lightly.')  Very  well.  Rehearse 
your  several  Christian  names  after  me  and  go 
on:  "Profess  my  sincere  repentance." 

Capt.  G.     "Sincere  repentance." 

Mrs.  H.     "For  having  behaved"  — 

Capt.  G.  {Aside.)  At  last!  I  wish  to  Good- 
ness she'd  look  away.  "For  having  behaved" 
— as  I  have  behaved,  and  declare  that  I  am  thor- 
oughly and  heartily  sick  of  the  whole  business, 
and  take  this  opportunity  of  making  clear  my  in- 
tention of  ending  it,  now,  henceforward,  and 
forever.  {Aside.)  If  any  one  had  told  me  I 
should  be  such  a  blackguard!  — 

Mrs.  H.  {Shaking  a  spoonful  of  potato  chips 
into  her  plate.)    That's  not  a  pretty  joke. 

Capt.  G.  No.  It's  a  reality.  {Aside.)  I 
wonder  if  smashes  of  this  kind  are  always  so  raw. 

Mrs.  H.  Really,  Pip,  you're  getting  more  ab- 
surd every  day. 

Capt.  G.  I  don't  think  you  quite  understand 
me.     Shall  I  repeat  it } 

Mrs.  H.  No!  For  pity's  sake  don't  do  that 
It's  too  terrible,  even  in  fun. 


52  The  Tents  of  Kedar 

Capt.  G.  I'll  let  her  think  it  over  for  a  while. 
But  1  ought  to  be  horse-whipped. 

Mrs,  H.  I  want  to  know  what  you  meant  by 
what  you  said  just  now. 

Capt.  G.     Exactly  what  I  said.     No  less. 

Mrs.  H.  But  what  have  I  done  to  deserve  it? 
What  have  1  done  ? 

Capt.  G.  {Aside.)  If  she  only  wouldn't  look 
at  me.  {Aloud  and  very  slowly,  his  eyes  on  his 
plate.)  D'you  remember  that  evening  in  July, 
before  the  Rains  broke,  when  you  said  that  the 
end  would  have  to  come  sooner  or  later — and 
you  wondered  for  which  of  us  it  would  come 
first .? 

Mrs.  H.  Yes!  I  was  only  joking.  And  you 
swore  that,  as  long  as  there  was  breath  in  your 
body,  it  should  itever  come.    And  I  believed  you. 

Capt.  G.  {Fingering  menu-card.)  Well,  it 
has.    That's  all. 

A  long  pause,  during  which  Mrs.  H.  bows 
her  head  and  rolls  the  bread-twist  into 
little  pellets :  G.  stares  at  the  oleanders. 

Mrs.  H.  ( Throwing  back  her  head  ajid  laugh- 
ing naturally.)  They  train  us  women  well, 
don't  they,  Pip? 

Capt.  G.  {Brutally,  touching  shirt-stud.)  So 
far  as  the  expression  goes.  {Aside.)  It  isn't  in 
her  nature  to  take  things  quietly.  There'll  be  an 
explosion  yet. 


The  Tents  of  Kedar  53 

Mrs.  H.  {With  a  shudder.)  Thank  you. 
B-but  even  Red  Indians  allow  people  to  wriggle 
when  they're  being  tortured,  I  believe.  {Slips 
fan  from  girdle  and  fans  slowly :  rim  of  fan 
level  with  chin.) 

Partner  on  Left.  Very  close  to-night,  isn't 
it  ?    'You  find  it  too  much  for  you  } 

Mrs.  H.  Oh,  no,  not  in  the  least.  But  they 
really  ought  to  have  punkahs,  even  in  your  cool 
Naini  Tal,  oughtn't  they  .?  {Turns,  dropping  fan 
and  raising  eyebrows.) 

Capt.  G.  It's  all  right.  {Aside.)  Here  comes 
the  storm ! 

Mrs.  H.  {Her  eyes  on  the  tablecloth :  fan  ready 
in  right  hand.)  It  was  very  cleverly  managed, 
Pip,  and  I  congratulate  you.  You  swore — you 
never  contented  yourself  with  merely  saying  a 
thing — you  swore  that,  as  far  as  lay  in  your 
power,  you'd  make  my  wretched  life  pleasant 
for  me.  And  you've  denied  me  the  consolation 
of  breaking  down.  I  should  have  done  it — in- 
deed I  should.  A  woman  would  hardly  have 
thought  of  this  refinement,  my  kind,  considerate 
friend.  {Fan-guard  as  before.)  You  have  ex- 
plained things  so  tenderly  and  truthfully,  too! 
You  haven't  spoken  or  written  a  word  of  warn- 
ing, and  you  have  let  me  believe  in  you  till  the 
last  minute.  You  haven't  condescended  to  give 
me  your  reason  yet.    No !    A  woman  could  not 


54  The  Tents  of  Kedar 

have  managed  it  half  so  well.  Are  there  many 
men  like  you  in  the  world  ? 

Capt.  G.  I'm  sure  1  don't  know.  {To  Khit- 
matgar.)    Ohe!      Simphin  do. 

Mrs.  H.  You  call  yourself  a  man  of  the  world, 
don't  you  ?  Do  men  of  the  world  behave  like 
Devils  when  they  do  a  woman  the  honor  to  get 
tired  of  her  ? 

Capt.  G.  I'm  sure  I  don't  know.  Don't  speak 
so  loud ! 

Mrs.  H.  Keep  us  respectable,  O  Lord,  what- 
ever happens!  Don't  be  afraid  of  my  compro- 
mising you.  You've  chosen  your  ground  far  too 
well,  and  I've  been  properly  brought  up.  {Loiv- 
ering  fan.)  Haven't  you  any  pity,  Pip,  except 
for  yourself  } 

Capt.  G.  'Wouldn't  it  be  rather  impertinent  of 
me  to  say  that  I'm  sorry  for  you  } 

Mrs.  H.  I  think  you  have  said  it  once  or  twice 
before.  You're  growing  very  careful  of  my  feel- 
ings. My  God,  Pip,  I  was  a  good  woman  once! 
You  said  I  was.  You've  made  me  what  1  am. 
What  are  you  going  to  do  with  me  ?  What  are 
you  going  to  do  with  me  ?  Won't  you  say  that 
you  are  .sorry  ?  {Helps  herself  tcr  iced  aspar- 
agus.) 

Capt.  G.  1  am  sorry  for  you,  if  you  want  the 
pity  of  such  a  brute  as  I  am.  I'm  auf'ly  sorry 
for  you. 


The  Tents  of  Kedar  55 

Mrs.  H.  Rather  tame  for  a  man  of  the  world. 
Do  you  think  that  that  admission  clears  you  ? 

Capt.  G.  What  can  I  do  ?  I  can  only  tell  you 
what  I  think  of  myself.  You  can't  think  worse 
than  that } 

Mrs.  H.  Oh,  yes,  1  can!  And  now,  will  you 
tell  me  the  reason  of  all  this  .^  Remorse.?  Has 
Bayard  been  suddenly  conscience-stricken  } 

Capt.  G.  {Angrily,  his  eyes  still  lowered.')  No! 
The  thing  has  come  to  an  end  on  my  side.  That's 
all.     Mafisch  I 

Mrs.  H.  "That's  all.  Mafisch!"  As  though 
I  were  a  Cairene  Dragoman.  You  used  to  make 
prettier  speeches.  D'you  remember  when  you 
said .? — 

Capt.  G.  For  Heaven's  sake  don't  bring  that 
back!  Call  me  anything  you  like  and  I'll  admit 
it  — 

Mrs.  H.  But  you  don't  care  to  be  reminded  of 
old  lies  }  If  I  could  hope  to  hurt  you  one-tenth 
as  much  as  you  have  hurt  me  to-night —  No,  1 
wouldn't — 1  couldn't  do  it — liar  though  you  are. 

Capt.  G.     I've  spoken  the  truth. 

Mrs.  H.  My  dear  Sir,  you  flatter  yourself. 
You  have  lied  over  the  reason.  Pip,  remember 
that  I  know  you  as  you  don't  know  yourself. 
You  have  been  everything  to  me,  though  you 
are —  (Fan-guard.)  Oh,  what  a  contemptible 
Thing  it  is !    And  so  you  are  merely  tired  of  me  ? 


56  The  Tents  of  Kedar 

Capt.  G.  Since  you  insist  upon  my  repeating 
it— Yes. 

Mrs.  H.  Lie  the  first.  I  wish  I  knew  a  coarser 
word.  Lie  seems  so  ineffectual  in  your  case. 
The  fire  has  just  died  out  and  there  is  no  fresh 
one.?  Think  for  a  minute,  Pip,  if  you  care 
whether  I  despise  you  more  than  I  do.  Simply 
Mafisch,  is  it } 

Capt.  G.  Yes.  {Aside.')  I  think  I  deserve 
this. 

Mrs.  H.  Lie  number  two.  Before  the  next 
glass  chokes  you,  tell  me  her  name. 

Capt.  G.  {Aside.)  I'll  make  her  pay  for 
dragging  Minnie  into  the  business!  {Aloud.)  Is 
it  likely? 

Mrs.  H.  Very  likely  if  you  thought  that  it 
would  flatter  your  vanity.  You'd  cry  my  name 
on  the  house-tops  to  make  people  turn  round. 

Capt.  G.  I  wish  I  had.  There  would  have 
been  an  end  of  this  business. 

Mrs.  H.  Oh,  no,  there  would  not — And  so 
you  were  going  to  be  virtuous  and  blase,  were 
you  }  To  come  to  me  and  say:  "  I've  done  with 
you.  The  incident  is  clo-osed."  I  ought  to  be 
proud  of  having  kept  such  a  man  so  long. 

Capt.  G.  {Aside.)  It  only  remains  to  pray 
for  the  end  of  the  dinner.  {Aloud.)  You  know 
what  I  think  of  myself. 

Mrs.  H.     As  it's  the  only  person  in  the  world 


The  Tents  of  Kedar  yi 

you  ever  do  think  of,  and  as  I  know  your  mind 
tiioroughly,  I  do.  You  want  to  get  it  all  over 
and —  Oh,  I  can't  keep  you  back!  And  you're 
going — think  of  it,  Pip — to  throw  me  over  for 
another  woman.  And  you  swore  that  all  other 
women  were —  Pip,  my  Pip!  She  can't  care 
for  you  as  I  do.  Believe  me,  she  can't!  Is  it 
any  one  that  I  know  } 

Capt.  G.  Thank  Goodness  it  isn't.  {Aside.) 
I  expected  a  cyclone,  but  not  an  earthquake. 

Mrs.  H.  She  cant!  Is  there  anything  that  I 
wouldn't  do  for  you — or  haven't  done  }  And  to 
think  that  I  should  take  this  trouble  over  you, 
knowing  what  you  are!  Do  you  despise  me  for 
it.? 

Capt.  G.  {Wiping  his  mouth  to  hide  a  smile.) 
Again  ?  It's  entirely  a  work  of  charity  on  your 
part. 

Mrs.  H.  Ahhh!  But  I  have  no  right  to  re- 
sent it.— Is  she  better-looking  than  I  ?  Who  was 
it  said  ? — 

Capt.  G.    No — not  that! 

Mrs.  H.  I'll  be  more  merciful  than  you  were. 
Don't  you  know  that  all  women  are  aUke  ? 

Capt.  G.  {Aside.)  Then  this  is  the  exception 
that  proves  the  rule. 

Mrs.  H.  All  of  them!  I'll  tell  you  anything 
you  like.  I  will,  upon  my  word!  They  only 
want  the  admiration — from  anybody— no  matter 


^8  The  Tents  of  Kedar 

who— anybody!  But  there  is  always  one  man 
that  they  care  for  more  than  any  one  else  in  the 
world,  and  would  sacrifice  all  the  others  to.  Oh, 
^0  listen!  I've  kept  the  Vaynor  man  trotting 
after  me  like  a  poodle,  and  he  believes  that  he  is 
the  only  man  I  am  interested  in.  Ill  tell  you 
what  he  said  to  me. 

Capt.  G.  Spare  him.  {Aside.)  I  wonder 
what  his  version  is. 

Mrs.  H.  He's  been  waiting  for  me  to  look  at 
him  all  through  dinner.  Shall  I  do  it,  and  you 
can  see  what  an  idiot  he  looks  ? 

Capt.  G.  "But  what  imports  the  nomination 
of  this  gentleman?" 

Mrs.  H.  Watch!  {Sends  a  glance  to  the 
l^aynor  man,  who  tries  vainly  to  combine  a  mouth- 
ful of  ice  pudding,  a  smirk  of  self-satisfaction,  a 
glare  of  intense  devotion,  and  the  stolidity  of  a 
British  dining  countenance.) 

Capt.  G.  {Critically.)  He  doesn't  look  pretty. 
Why  didn't  you  wait  till  the  spoon  was  out  of 
his  mouth  } 

Mrs.  H.  To  amuse  you.  She'll  make  an  ex- 
hibition of  you  as  I've  made  of  him;  and  people 
will  laugh  at  you.  Oh,  Pip,  can't  you  see  that  ? 
It's  as  plain  as  the  noonday  sun.  You'll  be 
trotted  about  and  told  lies,  and  made  a  fool  of 
like  the  others.  /  never  made  a  fool  of  you, 
didl? 


The  Tents  of  Kedar  59 

Capt.  G.  {Aside.)  What  a  clever  little 
woman  it  is! 

Mrs.  H.     Well,  what  have  you  to  say  ? 

Capt.  G.     I  feel  better. 

Mrs.  H.  Yes,  I  suppose  so,  after  1  have  come 
down  to  your  level.  1  couldn't  have  done  it  if  I 
hadn't  cared  for  you  so  much.  1  have  spoken 
the  truth. 

Capt.  G.     It  doesn't  alter  the  situation. 

Mrs.  H.  {Passionately.)  Then  she  has  said 
that  she  cares  for  you!  Don't  believe  her,  Pip. 
It's  a  lie — as  bad  as  yours  to  me! 

Capt.  G.  Ssssteady!  I've  a  notion  that  a 
friend  of  yours  is  looking  at  you. 

Mrs.  H.  He!  \  hate\\\m.  He  introduced  you 
to  me. 

Capt.  G.  {Aside.)  And  some  people  would 
like  women  to  assist  in  making  the  laws.  Intro- 
duction to  imply  condonement.  {Aloud.)  Well, 
you  see,  if  you  can  remember  so  far  back  as  that, 
I  couldn't,  in  common  politeness,  refuse  the  offer. 

Mrs.  H.  In  common  politeness!  We  have 
got  beyond  that ! 

Capt.  G.  {Aside.)  Old  ground  means  fresh 
trouble,     {Aloud.)    On  my  honor  — 

Mrs.  H.     Your  what?    Ha,  ha! 

Capt.  G.  Dishonor,  then.  She's  not  what 
you  imagine.     I  meant  to  — 

Mrs.  Ho     Don't  tell  me  anything  about  herl 


6o  The  Tents  of  Kedar 

She  won't  care  for  you,  and  when  you  come 
back,  after  having  made  an  exhibition  of  your- 
self, you'll  find  me  occupied  with  — 

Capt.  G.  {Insolently.)  You  couldn't  while  I 
am  alive.  {Aside.)  If  that  doesn't  bring  her 
pride  to  her  rescue,  nothing  will. 

Mrs.  H.  (Drawing  herself  tip.)  Couldn't  do 
it?  I?  (Softening.)  You're  right.  1  don't  be- 
lieve I  could — though  you  are  what  you  are — a 
coward  and  a  liar  in  grain. 

Capt.  G.  It  doesn't  hurt  so  much  after  your 
little  lecture — with  demonstrations. 

Mrs.  H.  One  mass  of  vanity!  Will  nothing 
ever  touch  you  in  this  life  ?  There  must  be  a 
Hereafter  if  it's  only  for  the  benefit  of —  But 
you  will  have  it  all  to  yourself. 

Capt.  G.  (Under  his  eyebrows.)  Are  you  so 
certain  of  that  ? 

Mrs.  H.  I  shall  have  had  mine  in  this  life; 
and  it  will  serve  me  right. 

Capt.  G.  But  the  admiration  that  you  insisted 
on  so  strongly  a  moment  ago?  (Aside.)  Oh,  I 
am  a  brute! 

Mrs.  H.  (Fiercely.)  Will //;^/ console  me  for 
knowing  that  you  will  go  to  her  with  the  same 
words,  the  same  arguments,  and  the— the  same 
pet  names  you  used  to  me  ?  And  if  she  cares 
for  you,  you  two  will  laugh  over  my  story. 
Won't  that  be  punishment  heavy  enough  even 


The  Tents  of  Kedar  6\ 

for  me — even  for  me? —  And  it's  all  useless. 
That's  another  punishment. 

Capt.  G.  (^Feebly.)  Oh,  come!  I'm  not  so 
low  as  you  think. 

Mrs.  H,  Not  now,  perhaps,  but  you  will  be. 
Oh,  Pip,  if  a  woman  flatters  your  vanity,  there's 
nothing  on  earth  that  you  would  not  tell  her; 
and  no  meanness  that  you  would  not  do.  Have 
I  known  you  so  long  without  knowing  that  } 

Capt.  G.  If  you  can  trust  me  in  nothing  else 
— and  I  don't  see  why  I  should  be  trusted — you 
can  count  upon  my  holding  my  tongue. 

Mrs.  H.  If  you  denied  everything  you've  said 
this  evening  and  declared  it  was  all  in  fun  {a 
long  pause),  I'd  trust  you.  Not  otherwise.  All 
i  ask  is,  don't  tell  her  my  name.  Please  don't. 
A  man  might  forget:  a  woman  never  would. 
{Looks  up  table  and  sees  hostess  beginning  to  col- 
lect eyes.)  So  it's  all  ended,  through  no  fault  of 
mine —  Haven't  1  behaved  beautifully?  I've 
accepted  your  dismissal,  and  you  managed  it  as 
cruelly  as  you  could,  and  I  have  made  you  re- 
spect my  sex,  haven't  I  ?  {Arranging  gloves  and 
fan.)  I  only  pray  that  she'll  know  you  some 
day  as  I  know  you  now.  I  wouldn't  be  you 
then,  for  I  think  even  your  conceit  will  be  hurt. 
I  hope  she'll  pay  you  back  the  humiliation  you've 
brought  on  me.  I  hope —  No.  I  don't.  I  can't 
give  you  up!     I  must  have  something  to  look 


62  The  Tents  of  Kedar 

forward  to  or  I  shall  go  crazy.  When  it's  all 
over,  come  back  to  me,  come  back  to  me,  and 
you'll  find  that  you're  my  Pip  still! 

Capt.  G.  {yery  clearly.)  'False  move,  and 
you  pay  for  it.     It's  a  girl! 

Mrs.  H.  {Rising.)  Then  it  was  true!  They 
said — but  1  wouldn't  insult  you  by  asking.  A 
girl!  /  was  a  girl  not  very  long  ago.  Be  good 
to  her,  Pip.     I  daresay  she  believes  in  you. 

Goes  out  uith  an  uncertain  smile.    He 
watches  her  through  the  door,  and  set- 
tles into  a  chair  as  the  men  redistribute 
themselves. 
Capt.  G.    Now,  if  there  is  any  Power  who 
looks  after  this  world,  will  He  kindly  tell  me 
what  I  have  done  ?    {Reaching  out  for  the  claret, 
and  half  aloud.)    What  have  1  done  ? 


WITH  ANY  AMAZEMENT 


WITH  ANY  AMAZEMENT 

And  are  not  afraid  with  any  amazement. 

Marriage  Service. 

Scene. — A  bachelor's  bedroom — toilet-table  ar- 
ranged with  unnatural  neatness.  Captain 
Gadsby  asleep  and  snoring  heavily.  Time, 
10.30  A.M. — a  glorious  autumn  day  at  Simla. 
Enter  delicately  Captain  Mafflin  of  Gadsby's 
regiment.  Looks  at  sleeper,  and  shakes  his 
head  murmuring  ''Poor  Gaddy."  Performs 
violent  fantasia  with  hair-brushes  on  chair- 
back. 
Capt.   M.      Wake  up,   my  sleeping  beauty! 

{Roars.) 

"  Uprouse  ye,  then,  my  merry  merry  men  I 
It  is  our  opening  day ! 
It  is  our  opening  da-ay  !  " 

Gaddy,  the  little  dicky-birds  have  been  billing 
and  cooing  for  ever  so  long  ;  and  I'm  here! 

Capt.  G.  (Sitting  up  and  yawning.)  'Mornin'. 
This  is  awf ly  good  of  you,  old  fellov/.  Most 
awf'ly  good  of  you.  'Don't  know  what  I  should 
do  without  you.  'Pon  my  soul,  I  don't.  'Haven't 
slept  a  wink  all  night. 

65 


(^  With  Any  Amazement 

Cai»t.  M.  I  didn't  get  in  till  half-past  eleven. 
'Had  a  look  at  you  then,  and  you  seemed  to  be 
sleeping  as  soundly  as  a  condemned  criminal. 

Capt.  G.  Jack,  if  you  want  to  make  those  dis- 
gustingly worn-out  jokes,  you'd  better  go  away. 
{With  portentous  gravity.)  It's  the  happiest  day 
in  my  life. 

Capt.  M.  {Chuckling grimly.)  Not  by  a  very 
long  chalk,  my  son.  You're  going  through  some 
of  the  most  refined  torture  you've  ever  known. 
But  be  calm,     /am  with  you.     'Shun!    Dress! 

Capt.  G.     Eh!    Wha-at? 

Capt.  M.  Do  you  suppose  that  you  are  your 
own  master  for  the  next  twelve  hours  ?  If  you 
do,  of  course  —    {Makes  for  the  door.) 

Capt.  G.  No!  For  Goodness'  sake,  old  man, 
don't  do  that!  You'll  see  me  through,  won't 
you  ?  I've  been  mugging  up  that  beastly  drill, 
and  can't  remember  a  line  of  it. 

Capt.  M.  {Overhauling  G.'s  tiniforrn.)  Go 
and  tub.  Don't  bother  me.  I'll  give  you  ten 
minutes  to  dress  in. 

Interval,  filled  by    the  noise    as    of  one 
splashing  in  the  bath-room. 

Capt.  G.  {Emerging  from  dressing-room.) 
What  time  is  it '? 

Capt.  M.     Nearly  eleven, 

Capt.  G.     Five  hours  more.     O  Lord! 

Capt.  M.     {Aside.)    'First  sign  of  funk,  that 


With  Any  Amazement  67 

'Wonder  if  it's  going  to  spread.    (Aloud.)   Come 
along  to  breakfast. 

Capt.  G.  I  can't  eat  anything.  I  don't  want 
any  breakfast. 

Capt.  M.  (Aside.)  So  early!  (Aloud.)  Cap- 
tain Gadsby,  I  order  you  to  eat  breakfast,  and  a 
dashed  good  breakfast,  too.  None  of  your  bridal 
airs  and  graces  with  me! 

Leads  G.  downstairs,  and  stands  over  him 
while  he  eats  two  chops. 

Capt.  G.  (Who  has  looked  at  his  watch  thrice 
in  the  last  five  minutes.)    What  time  is  it  ? 

Capt.  M.    Time  to  come  for  a  walk.    Light  up. 

Capt.  G.  I  haven't  smoked  for  ten  days,  and 
I  won't  now.  (Takes  cheroot  .which  M.  has  cut 
for  him,  and  blows  smoke  through  his  nose  lux- 
uriously.) We  aren't  going  down  the  Mall,  are 
we? 

Capt.  M.  (Aside.)  They're  all  alike  in  these 
stages.  (Aloud.)  No,  my  Vestal.  We're  going 
along  the  quietest  road  we  can  find. 

Capt.  G.     Any  chance  of  seeing  Her  ? 

Capt.  M.  Innocent!  No!  Come  along,  and, 
if  you  want  me  for  the  final  obsequies,  don't  cut 
my  eye  out  with  your  stick. 

Capt.  G.  (Spinning  round.)  I  say,  isn't  She 
the  dearest  creature  that  ever  walked  }  What's 
the  time?  What  comes  after  "wilt  thou  take 
this  woman  "  ? 


68  With  Any  Amaiement 

Capt.  M.  You  go  for  the  ring.  R'clect  it'll 
be  on  the  top  of  my  right-hand  Uttle  finger,  and 
just  be  careful  how  you  draw  it  off,  because  I 
shall  have  the  Verger's  fees  somewhere  in  my 
glove. 

Capt.  G.     {Walking  foriimrd  hastily.)    D 

the  Verger!  Come  along!  It's  past  twelve  and 
I  haven't  seen  Her  since  yesterday  evening.  {Spin- 
ning round  again.)  She's  an  absolute  angel, 
Jack,  and  She's  a  dashed  deal  too  good  for  me. 
Look  here,  does  She  come  up  the  aisle  on  my 
arm,  or  how  ? 

Capt.  M.  If  1  thought  that  there  was  the  least 
chance  of  your  remembering  anything  for  two 
consecutive  minutes,  I'd  tell  you.  Stop  passag- 
ing about  like  that! 

Capt.  G.  {Halting  in  the  middle  of  the  road.) 
I  say,  Jack. 

Capt.  M.  Keep  quiet  for  another  ten  minutes 
if  you  can,  you  lunatic  ;  and  xL'alk! 

The  two  tramp  at  five  miles  an  hour  for 
fifteen  minutes. 

Capt.  G.  What's  the  time  ?  How  about  that 
cursed  wedding-cake  and  the  slippers?  They 
don't  throw  'em  about  in  church,  do  they  ? 

Capt.  M.  In-variably.  The  Padre  leads  off 
with  his  boots. 

Capt.  G.  Confound  your  silly  soul!  Don't 
make  fun  of  me.     1  can't  stand  it,  and  I  won'tl 


IVith  Any  Amazement  69 

Capt.  M.  {Untroubled.)  So-000,  old  horse! 
You'll  have  to  sleep  for  a  couple  of  hours  this 
afternoon. 

Capt.  G.  {Spinning  round.)  I'm  not  going 
to  be  treated  like  a  dashed  child.  Understand 
that! 

Capt.  M.  {Aside.)  Nerves  gone  to  fiddle- 
strings.  What  a  day  we're  having!  {Tenderly 
putting  his  hand  on  G.'s  shoulder.)  My  David, 
how  long  have  you  known  this  Jonathan.? 
Would  I  come  up  here  to  make  a  fool  of  you 
— after  all  these  years .? 

Capt.  G.  {Penitently.)  I  know,  I  know.  Jack 
— but  I'm  as  upset  as  I  can  be.  Don't  mind  what 
I  say.  Just  hear  me  run  through  the  drill  and  see 
if  I've  got  it  all  right:  — 

"  To  have  and  to  hold  for  better  or  worse,  as  it 
was  in  the  beginning,  is  now,  and  ever  shall  be, 
world  without  end,  so  help  me  God.     Amen." 

Capt.  M.  {Suffocating  with  suppressed  laugh- 
ter.) Yes.  That's  about  the  gist  of  it.  I'll  prompt 
if  you  get  into  a  hat. 

Capt.  G.  {Earnestly.)  Yes,  you'll  stick  by 
me.  Jack,  won't  you  ?  I'm  awf 'ly  happy,  but  1 
don't  mind  tellingjvoM  that  I'm  in  a  blue  funk! 

Capt.  M.  {Gravely.)  Are  you  ?  I  should 
never  have  noticed  it.     You  don't  look  like  it. 

Capt.  G.  Don't  I  ?  That's  all  right.  {Spin- 
ning round.)    On  my  soul  and  honor,  Jack,  She's 


70  With  Any  Ajnaiement 

the  sweetest  little  angel  that  ever  came  down 
from  the  sky.  There  isn't  a  woman  on  earth  fit 
to  speak  to  Her. 

Capt.  M.  (Aside.)  And  this  is  old  Gaddy! 
{Aloud.)    Go  on  if  it  relieves  you. 

Capt.  G.  You  can  laugh!  That's  all  you  wild 
asses  of  bachelors  are  fit  for. 

Capt.  M.  {Drawling.)  You  never  would  wait 
for  the  troop  to  come  up.  You  aren't  quite 
married  yet,  y'know. 

Capt.  G.  Ugh!  That  reminds  me.  I  don't 
believe  I  shall  be  able  to  get  into  my  boots.  Let's 
go  home  and  try  'em  on!    {Hurries  forward.) 

Capt.  M.  'Wouldn't  be  in  your  shoes  for  any- 
thing that  Asia  has  to  offer. 

Capt.  G.  {Spinning  round.)  That  just  shows 
your  hideous  blackness  of  soul — your  dense  stu- 
pidity— your  brutal  narrow-mindedness.  There's 
only  one  fault  about  you.  You're  the  best  of 
good  fellows,  and  I  don't  know  what  1  should 
have  done  without  you,  but — you  aren't  married. 
{IVags  his  head  gravely.)    Take  a  wife,  Jack. 

Capt.  M.  {IVith  a  face  like  a  wall.)  Ya-as. 
Whose  for  choice  ? 

Capt.  G.  If  you're  going  to  be  a  blackguard, 
I'm  going  on —    What's  the  time  ? 

Capt.  M.     {Hums.) — 

"  An'  since  'twas  very  clear  we  drank  only  ginger-beer, 
Failh,  there  must  ha'  been  some  stingo  in  the  ginger." 


]Vttk  Any  Amazement  71 

Come  back,  you  maniac.  I'm  going  to  take 
you  home,  and  you're  going  to  lie  down. 

Capt.  G.  What  on  earth  do  I  want  to  lie 
down  for  ? 

Capt.  M.  Give  me  a  light  from  your  cheroot 
and  see. 

Capt.  G.  {Watching  cheroot-btitt  quiver  like 
a  tuning-fork.)    Sweet  state  I'm  in! 

Capt.  M.  You  are.  I'll  get  you  a  peg  and 
you'll  go  to  sleep. 

They  return  and  M.  compounds  a  four- 
finger  peg. 

Capt.  G.  O  bus  !  bus  !  It'll  make  me  as  drunk 
as  an  owl. 

Capt.  M.  'Curious  thing,  'twon't  have  the 
slightest  effect  on  you.  Drink  it  off,  chuck  your- 
self down  there,  and  go  to  bye-bye. 

Capt.  G.  It's  absurd.  I  sha'n't  sleep.  I  know 
1  sha'n't! 

Falls  into  heavy  doie  at  end  of  seven 
minutes.  Capt.  M.  watches  him  ten- 
derly. 

Capt.  M.  Poor  old  Gaddy!  I've  seen  a  few 
turned  off  before,  but  never  one  who  went  to 
the  gallows  in  this  condition.  'Can't  tell  how  it 
affects  'em,  though.  It's  the  thoroughbreds  that 
sweat  when  they're  backed  into  double-harness. 
— And  that's  the  man  who  went  through  the 
guns  at  Amdheran   like  a    devil    possessed  of 


72  With  Any  Amazement 

devils.  (Leans  over  G.)  But  this  is  worse  than 
the  guns,  old  pal — worse  than  the  guns,  isn't  it? 
(G.  turns  in  his  sleep,  and  M.  touches  him  clum- 
sily on  the  forehead.)  Poor,  dear  old  Gaddy! 
Going  like  the  rest  of  'em — going  like  the  rest  of 
'em — Friend  that  sticketh  closer  than  a  brother — 
eight  years.  Dashed  bit  of  a  slip  of  a  girl — eight 
weeks!  And — where's  your  friend.?  {Smokes 
disconsolately  till  church  clock  strikes  three.) 

Capt.  M.     Up  with  you!    Get  into  your  kit. 

Capt.  G.  Already  ?  isn't  it  too  soon  ?  Hadn't 
I  better  have  a  shave  7 

Capt.  M.  No!  You're  all  right.  (Aside.) 
He'd  chip  his  chin  to  pieces. 

Capt,  G.    What's  the  hurry  ? 

Capt.  M.     You've  got  to  be  there  first. 

Capt.  G.     To  be  stared  at  ? 

Capt.  M.  Exactly.  You're  part  of  the  show. 
Where's  the  burnisher  ?  Your  spurs  are  in  a 
shameful  state. 

Capt.  G.  (Gruffly.)  Jack,  I  be  damned  if  you 
shall  do  that  for  me. 

Capt.  M.  (More  gruffly.)  Dry  up  and  get 
dressed!  If  I  choose  to  clean  your  spurs,  you're 
under  my  orders. 

Capt.  G.  dresses.     M.  folloivs  suit. 

Capt.  M.  (Critically,  walking  round.)  M'yes, 
you'll  do.  Only  don't  look  so  like  a  criminal. 
Ring,  gloves,  fees— that's  all  right  for  me.     Let 


Copyright,  1899,  by  H.  M.  Caldwell  Co. 

"'Stick  by  me,  Jack!    What  the  devil  do  I  do?'" 


With  Any  AmaT^ement  73 

your  moustache  alone.  Now,  if  the  ponies  are 
ready,  we'll  go. 

Capt.  G.  (Nervously.')  It's  much  too  soon. 
Let's  light  up!    Let's  have  a  peg!     Let's  — 

Capt.  M.    Let's  make  bally  asses  of  ourselves! 

Bells.     (  Without. )  — 

"  Good — peo — pie — all 
To  prayers — we  call." 

Capt.  M.    There  go  the  bells!    Come  on— un- 
less you'd  rather  not.     {They  ride  off.) 
Bells. — 

"  We  honor  the  King 
And  Brides  joy  do  bring  — 
Good  tidings  we  tell, 
And  ring  the  Dead's  knell." 

Capt.  G.  {Dismounting  at  the  door  of  the 
Church.)  I  say,  aren't  we  much  too  soon  ? 
There  are  no  end  of  people  inside.  I  say,  aren't 
we  much  too  late?  Stick  by  me.  Jack!  What 
the  devil  do  I  do  } 

Capt.  M.  Strike  an  attitude  at  the  head  of  the 
aisle  and  wait  for  Her.  (G.  groans  as  M.  wheels 
him  into  position  before  three  hundred  eyes.) 

Capt.  M.  {Imploringly.)  Gaddy,  if  you  love 
me,  for  pity's  sake,  for  the  Honor  of  the  Regi- 
ment, stand  up !  Chuck  yourself  into  your  uni- 
form! Look  like  a  man!  I've  got  to  speak  to 
the  Padre  a  minute.     (G.  breaks  into  a  gentle 


74  IVith  Any  Amaiemeni 

perspiration.)  If  you  wipe  your  face  I'll  never 
be  your  best  man  again.  Stand  up!  (G.  trembles 
visibly. ) 

Capt.  M.  (Returning.)  She's  coming  now. 
Look  out  when  the  music  starts.  There's  the 
organ  beginning  to  clack. 

Bride  steps  out  of  'rickshaw  at  Church 
door.     G.  catches  a  glimpse  of  her  and 
takes  heart. 
Organ. — 

«  The  Voice  that  breathed  o'er  Eden, 
That  earliest  marriage  day. 
The  primal  marriage-blessing, 
It  hath  not  passed  away." 

Capt.  M.  (IVatching  G.)  By  Jove!  He  is 
looking  well.     'Didn't  think  he  had  it  in  him. 

Capt.  G.  How  long  does  this  hymn  go  on 
for? 

Capt.  M.  It  will  be  over  directly.  {Anx- 
iously.) Beginning  to  bleach  and  gulp?  Hold 
on,  Gaddy,  and  think  o'  the  Regiment. 

Capt.  G.  (Measuredly.)  I  say,  there's  a  big 
brown  lizard  crawling  up  that  wall. 

Capt.  M.  My  Sainted  Mother!  The  last  stage 
of  collapse  ! 

Bride  comes  up  to  left  of  altar,  lifts  her 
■    eyes  once  to  G.,  who  is  suddenly  smitten 
mad. 

Capt.  G.     {To  himself  again  and  again.)    Lit- 


With  Any  Amazement  75 

tie  Featherweight's  a  woman — a  woman!     And 
I  thought  she  was  a  little  girl. 

Capt.  M.  {In  a  whisper.)  Form  the  halt — in- 
ward wheel. 

Capt.  G.  obeys  mechanically  and  the  cere- 
mony proceeds. 
Padre.     .     .     .    only  unto  her  as  long  as  ye 
both  shall  live  } 
Capt.  G.     {His  throat  useless.)    Ha — hmmm! 
Capt.  M.     Say  you  will  or  you  won't.    There's 
no  second  deal  here. 

Bride  gives  response  with  perfect  coolness, 
and  is  given  away  by  the  father. 
Capt.  G.     {Thinking  to  show  his  learning.) 
Jack  give  me  away  now,  quick  I 

Capt.  M.  You're  given  yourself  away  quite 
enough.  Her  right  hand,  man!  Repeat!  Re- 
peat! "Theodore  Philip."  Have  you  forgotten 
your  own  name  } 

Capt.   G.   stumbles  through  Affirmation, 
which  Bride  repeats  without  a  tremor. 
Capt.  M.     Now  the  ring!    Follow  the  Padre! 
Don't  pull  off  my  glove!  Here  it  is!  Great  Cupid, 
he's  found  his  voice! 

G.  repeats   Troth  in  a  voice  to  be  heard  to 
the  end  of  the  Church  and  turns  on  his 
heel. 
Capt.    M.     {Desperately.)    Rein  back!    Back 
to  your  troop!    Tisn't  half  legal  yet. 


76  With  Any  Amaiement 

Padre.  .  .  .  joined  together  let  no  man 
put  asunder. 

Capt.   G.  paralysed  with  fear  jibs  after 
Blessing. 

Capt.  M.  {Quickly.)  On  your  own  front- 
one  length.  Take  her  with  you.  I  don't  come. 
You've  nothing  to  say.  (Capt.  G.  jingles  up  to 
altar.) 

Capt,  M.  (/«  a  piercing  rattle  meant  to  be  a 
whisper.)  Kneel,  you  stiff-necked  ruffian  I 
Kneel! 

Padre.  .  .  .  whose  daughters  are  ye  so 
long  as  ye  do  well  and  are  not  afraid  with  any 
amazement. 

Capt.  M.     Dismiss!    Break  off!    Left  wheell 
All  troop  to  vestry.     They  sign. 

Capt.  M.     Kiss  Her,  Gaddy. 

Capt.  G.  {Rubbing  the  ink  into  his  glove.) 
Eh!     Wha-at? 

Capt.  M.  ( Taking  one  pace  to  Bride.)  If  you 
don't,  I  shall. 

Capt.  G.  {Interposing  an  arm.)  Not  this 
journey ! 

General  kissing,  in  which  Capt.  G  is  pur- 
sued by  unknown  female. 

Capt.  G.  {Faintly  to  M.)  This  is  Hades! 
Can  I  wipe  my  face  now  ? 

Capt.  M.  My  responsibility  has  ended.  Bet- 
ter ask  Missis  Gadsby. 


With  Any  Ama:{ement  77 

Capt.  G.  winces  as  though  shot  and  pro- 
cession is  Mendelssohned  out  of  Church 
to  house,  where  usual  tortures  take  place 
over  the  wedding-cake. 

Capt.  M.  {At  table.)  Up  with  you,  Gaddy. 
They  expect  a  speech. 

Capt.  G.  {After  three  minutes'  agony.)  Ha 
— hmmm.     {Thunders  of  applause.) 

Capt.  M.  Doocid  good,  for  a  first  attempt. 
Now  go  and  change  your  kit  while  Mamma  is 
weeping  over — "the  Missus."  (Capt.  G.  disap- 
pears. Capt.  M.  starts  up  tearing  his  hair.)  It's 
not  half  legal.  Where  are  the  shoes  ?  Get  an 
ayah. 

Ayah.  Missie  Captain  Sahib  done  gone  band 
haro  all  the  jutis. 

Capt.  M.  (Brandishing  scabbarded  sword.) 
Woman,  produce  those  shoes!  Some  one  lend 
me  a  bread-knife.  We  mustn't  crack  Caddy's 
head  more  than  it  is.  {Slices  heel  off  white  satin 
slipper  and  puts  slipper  up  his  sleeve.)  Where  is 
the  Bride  ?  {To  the  company  at  large.)  Be  tender 
with  that  rice.  It's  a  heathen  custom.  Give  me 
the  big  bag. 

*^-  ■!■  •£•  ^U  •£>  4t  ■!* 

*^  •J*  rfm  ^^  rj*  •^  "I* 

Bride  slips  out  quietly  into  'rickshaw  and 
departs  toward  the  sunset. 
Capt.    M.     {In    the   open.)    Stole  away,   by 


*j8  With  Any  Atnaiement 

Jove!  So  much  the  worse  for  Gaddy!  Here  he 
is.  Now  Gaddy,  this'll  be  livelier  than  Amdhe- 
ran!    Where's  your  horse  ? 

Capt.  G.  {Furiously,  seeing  that  the  women 
are  out  of  earshot.)    Where  the— is  my  Wife  ? 

Capt.  M.  Half-way  to  Mahasu  by  this  time. 
You'll  have  to  ride  like  Young  Lochinvar. 

Horse  comes  round  on  his  hind  legs ;  re- 
fuses to  let  G.  handle  him. 
Capt.  G.  Oh  you  will,  will  you  ?    Get  round, 
you  brute — you  hog — you  beast!     Get  round! 
Wrenches  horse's  head  over,  tiearly  break- 
ing lower  jaw  ;  swings  himself  into  sad- 
dle, and  sends  home  both  spurs  in  the 
midst  of  a  spattering  gale  of  Best  Patna. 
Capt.  M.     For  your  life  and  your  love — ride, 
Gaddy! — And  God  bless  you! 

Throws  half  a  pound  of  rice  at  G.,  who 
disappears,  bowed  forward  on  the  saddle, 
in  a  cloud  of  sunlit  dust. 
Capt.  M.     I've  lost  old  Gaddy.     {Lights  cigar- 
ette and  strolls  off,  singing  absently) : — 

"  You  may  carve  it  on  his  tombstone,  you  may  cut  it  on  his 

card, 
That  a  young  man  married  is  a  young  man  marred  1  " 

Miss  Deercourt.  {From  her  horse.)  Really, 
Captain  Mafflin!  You  are  more  plain  spoken 
than  polite! 


With  Any  Amaiement  79 

Capt.  M.     {Aside.)    They  say  marriage  is  like 
cholera.     "Wonder  who'll  be  the  next  victim. 

White  satin  slipper  slides  from  his  sleeve 
and  falls  at  his  feet.     Left  wondering. 


THE  G.\RDEN  G?  ZIHN 


THE  GARDEN  OF  EDEN 

And  ye  shall  be  as — Gods ! 

Scene. — Thymy  grass-plot  at  back  of  the  Mahasu 
ddk-bungalow,  overlooking  little  wooded  valley. 
On  the  left,  glimpse  of  the  Dead  Forest  of 
Fagoo ;  on  the  right,  Simula  Hills.  In  back- 
ground, line  of  the  Snows.  Captain  Gadsby, 
now  three  weeks  a  husband,  is  smoking  the  pipe 
of  peace  on  a  rug  in  the  sunshine.  Banjo  and 
tobacco-pouch  on  rug.  Overhead  the  Fagoo 
eagles.    Mrs.  G.  comes  out  of  bungalow. 

Mrs.  G.     My  husband! 

Capt.  G.  {Laiily,  with  intense  enjoyment.) 
Eh,  wha-at  ?    Say  that  again. 

Mrs.  G.  I've  written  to  Mamma  and  told  her 
that  we  shall  be  back  on  the  17th. 

Capt.  G.     Did  you  give  her  my  love  ? 

Mrs.  G.  No,  I  kept  all  that  for  myself.  {Sit- 
ting down  by  his  side.)  I  thought  you  wouldn't 
mind. 

Capt.  G.  {With  mock  sternness.)  I  object 
awf'ly.  How  did  you  know  that  it  was  yours  to 
keep  ? 

83 


84  The  Garden  of  Eden 

Mrs.  G.     I  guessed,  Phil. 

Capt.  G.  (^Rapturously.)  Lit-tle  Feather- 
weight! 

Mrs.  G.  I  won't  be  called  those  sporting  pet 
names,  bad  boy. 

Capt.  G.  You'll  be  called  anything  I  choose. 
Has  it  ever  occurred  to  you,  Madam,  that  you  are 
my  Wife  } 

Mrs.  G.  It  has.  I  haven't  ceased  wondering 
at  it  yet. 

Capt.  G.  Nor  I.  It  seems  so  strange;  and 
yet,  somehow,  it  doesn't.  {Confidently.)  You 
see,  it  could  have  been  no  one  else. 

Mrs.  G.  {Softly.)  No.  No  one  else — for  me 
or  for  you.  It  must  have  been  all  arranged  from 
the  beginning.  Phil,  tell  me  again  what  made 
you  care  for  me. 

Capt.  G.  How  could  I  help  it?  You  were 
you,  you  know. 

Mrs.  G.  Did  you  ever  want  to  help  it  ?  Speak 
the  truth! 

Capt.  G.  {A  twinkle  in  his  eye.)  I  did, 
darling,  just  at  the  first.  But  only  at  the  very 
first.  {Chuckles.)  I  called  you — stoop  low  and 
I'll  whisper— "a  little  beast."    Ho!  Ho!  Ho! 

Mrs.  G.  {Taking  him  by  the  moustache  and 
making  him  sit  up.)  "A — little — beast!"  Stop 
laughing  over  your  crime!  And  yet  you  had  the 
— the — awful  cheek  to  propose  to  me! 


The  Garden  of  Eden  85 

Capt.  G.  I'd  changed  my  mind  then.  And 
you  weren't  a  little  beast  any  more. 

Mrs.  G.  Thank  you,  sir!  And  when  was  I 
ever? 

Capt.  G.  Never!  But  that  first  day,  when 
you  gave  me  tea  in  that  peach-colored  muslin 
gown  thing,  you  looked — you  did  indeed,  dear — 
such  an  absurd  little  mite.  And  1  didn't  know 
what  to  say  to  you. 

Mrs.  G.  (^Twisting  moustache.')  So  you  said 
"little  beast."  Upon  my  word,  Sir!  /  called 
you  a  "Crrrreature,"  but  I  wish  now  I  had  called 
you  something  worse. 

Capt.  G.  {Very  meekly.)  I  apologize,  but 
you're  hurting  me  awf  ly.  {Interlude.)  You're 
welcome  to  torture  me  again  on  those  terms. 

Mrs.  G.     Oh,  why  did  you  let  me  do  it  ? 

Capt.  G.  {Looking  across  valley.)  No  reason 
in  particular,  but — if  it  amused  you  or  did  you 
any  good — you  might — wipe  those  dear  little 
boots  of  yours  on  me. 

Mrs.  G.  {Stretching  out  her  hands.)  Don't! 
Oh,  don't!  Philip,  my  King,  please  don't  talk 
like  that.  It's  how  /  feel.  You're  so  much  too 
good  for  me.     So  much  too  good! 

Capt.  G.  Me!  I'm  not  fit  to  put  my  arm 
round  you.     {Puts  it  round.) 

Mrs.  G.  Yes,  you  are.  But  I— what  have  I 
ever  done  ? 


86  The  Garden  of  Eden 

Capt.  G.  Given  me  a  wee  bit  of  your  heart, 
haven't  you,  my  Queen  ? 

Mrs.  G.  Thafs  nothing.  Any  one  would  do 
that.    They  cou — couldn't  help  it. 

Capt.  G.  Fussy,  you'll  make  me  horribly  con- 
ceited. Just  when  I  was  beginning  to  feel  so 
humble,  too. 

Mrs.  G.  Humble!  I  don't  believe  it's  in  your 
character. 

Capt.  G.  What  do  you  know  of  my  char- 
acter, Impertinence? 

Mrs.  G.  Ah,  but  I  shall,  sha'n't  1,  Phil  ?  I 
shall  have  time  in  all  the  years  and  years  to  come, 
to  know  everything  about  you;  and  there  will  be 
no  secrets  between  us. 

Capt.  G.  Little  witch!  I  believe  you  know 
me  thoroughly  already. 

Mrs.  G.     I  think  1  can  guess.     You're  selfish? 

Capt.  G.     Yes. 

Mrs.  G.     Foolish  ? 

Capt.  G.     yery. 

Mrs.  G.     And  a  dear  ? 

Capt.  G.     That  is  as  my  lady  pleases. 

Mrs.  G.  Then  your  lady  is  pleased.  {A 
pause.)  D'you  know  that  we're  two  solemn, 
serious,  grown-up  people  — 

Capt.  G.  (  Tilting  her  straw  hat  over  her  eyes.') 
You  grown-up!     Pooh!    You're  a  baby. 

Mrs.  G.     And  we're  talking  nonsense. 


The  Garden  of  Eden  87 

Capt.  G.  Then  let's  go  on  talking  nonsense. 
I  rather  like  it.  Pussy,  I'll  tell  you  a  secret. 
Promise  not  to  repeat  ? 

Mrs.  G.     Ye— es.     Only  to  you. 

Capt.  G.     I  love  you. 

Mrs.  G.     Re-ally!    For  how  long? 

Capt.  G.     Forever  and  ever. 

Mrs.  G.     That's  a  long  time. 

Capt.  G.  'Think  so .?  It's  the  shortest  /  can 
do  with. 

Mrs.  G.     You're  getting  quite  clever. 

Capt.  G.     I'm  talking  to  you. 

Mrs.  G.  Prettily  turned.  Hold  up  your  stupid 
old  head  and  I'll  pay  you  for  it! 

Capt.  G.  (Affecting  supreme  contempt')  Take 
it  yourself  if  you  want  it. 

Mrs.  G.  I've  a  great  mind  to — and  I  will! 
(  Takes  it  and  is  repaid  with  interest.) 

Capt.  G.  Little  Featherweight,  it's  my  opinion 
that  we  are  a  couple  of  idiots. 

Mrs.  G.  We're  the  only  two  sensible  peo- 
ple in  the  world!  Ask  the  eagle.  He's  coming 
by. 

Capt.  G.  Ah!  I  dare  say  he's  seen  a  good 
many  sensible  people  at  Mahasu.  They  say  that 
those  birds  live  for  ever  so  long. 

Mrs.  G.     How  long  ? 

Capt.  G.     A  hundred  and  twenty  years. 

Mrs.  G.     a  hundred  and  twenty  years!    O- 


88  The  Garden  of  Eden 

oh!  And  in  a  hundred  and  twenty  years  where 
will  these  two  sensible  people  be  ? 

Capt.  G.  What  does  it  matter  so  long  as  we 
are  together  now  ? 

Mrs.  G.  {Looking  round  the  horiion.)  Yes. 
Only  you  and  1 — 1  and  you — in  the  whole  wide, 
wide  world  until  the  end.  {Sees  the  line  of  the 
Snows.)  How  big  and  quiet  the  hills  look!  D'you 
think  they  care  for  us  ? 

Capt.  G.  'Can't  say  I've  consulted  'em  par- 
ticularly.    /  care,  and  that's  enough  for  me. 

Mrs.  G.  {Draiving  nearer  to  him.)  Yes,  now 
— but  afterward.  What's  that  little  black  blur  on 
the  Snows  ? 

Capt.  G.  A  snowstorm,  forty  miles  away. 
You'll  see  it  move,  as  the  wind  carries  it  across 
the  face  of  that  spur,  and  then  it  will  be  all  gone. 

Mrs.  G.    And  then  it  will  be  all  gone.  {Shivers.) 

Capt.  G.  {Anxiously.)  'Not  chilled,  pet,  are 
you  ?    'Better  let  me  get  your  cloak. 

Mrs.  G.  No.  Don't  leave  me,  Phil.  Stay 
here.  I  believe  I  am  afraid.  Oh,  why  are  the 
hills  so  horrid!  Phil,  promise  me,  promise  me 
that  you'll  always  love  me. 

Capt.  G.  What's  the  trouble,  darling  ?  I  can't 
promise  any  more  than  I  have;  but  I'll  promise 
that  again  and  again  if  you  like. 

Mrs.  G.  {Her  head  on  his  shoulder.)  Say  it, 
then — say  it!    N-no — don't!     The — the — eagles 


The  Garden  of  Eden  89 

would     laugh.      {Recovering.)      My     husband, 
you've  married  a  little  goose. 

Capt.  G.  i^yery  tenderly.)  Have  I  ?  I  am 
content  whatever  she  is,  so  long  as  she  is  mine. 

Mrs.  G.  {Quickly.)  Because  she  is  yours  or 
because  she  is  me  mineself  } 

Capt.  G.  Because  she  is  both.  {Piteously.) 
I'm  not  clever,  dear,  and  1  don't  think  I  can  make 
myself  understood  properly. 

Mrs.  G.  /  understand.  Pip,  will  you  tell  me 
something  ? 

Capt.  G.  Anything  you  like.  {Aside.)  I 
wonder  what's  coming  now. 

Mrs.  G.  {Haltingly,  her  eyes  lowered.)  You 
told  me  once  in  the  old  days — centuries  and  cen- 
turies ago — that  you  had  been  engaged  before.  I 
didn't  say  anything — then. 

Capt.  G.     {Innocently.)    Why  not.? 

Mrs.  G.  {Raising  her  eyes  to  his.)  Because — 
because  I  was  afraid  of  losing  you,  my  heart. 
But  now — tell  about  it — please. 

Capt.  G.  There's  nothing  to  tell.  I  was 
awf'ly  old  then — nearly  two  and  twenty — and 
she  was  qnite  that. 

Mrs.  G.  That  means  she  was  older  than  you. 
I  shouldn't  like  her  to  have  been  younger.     Well  ? 

Capt.  G.  Well,  I  fancied  myself  in  love  and 
raved  about  a  bit,  and — oh,  yes,  by  Jove!  I  made 
up  poetry.     Ha!    Ha! 


90  The  Garden  of  Eden 

Mrs.  G.  You  never  wrote  any  for  me  !  What 
happened  ? 

Capt.  G.  I  came  out  here,  and  the  whole 
thing  went  phut.  She  wrote  to  say  that  there 
had  been  a  mistake,  and  then  she  married. 

Mrs.  G.     Did  she  care  for  you  much  ? 

Capt.  G.  No.  At  least  she  didn't  show  it  as 
far  as  I  remember. 

Mrs.  G.  As  far  as  you  remember!  Do  you 
remember  her  name.^  {Hears  it  and  bows  her 
head.)    Thank  you,  my  husband. 

Capt.  G.  Who  but  you  had  the  right  ?  Now, 
Little  Featherweight,  have  you  ever  been  mixed 
up  in  any  dark  and  dismal  tragedy  ? 

Mrs.  G.  If  you  call  me  Mrs.  Gadsby,  p'raps 
I'll  tell. 

Capt.  G.  {Throwing  Parade  rasp  into  his 
voice.)     Mrs.  Gadsby,  confess! 

Mrs.  G.  Good  Heavens,  Phil!  I  never  knew 
that  you  could  speak  in  that  terrible  voice. 

Capt.  G.  You  don't  know  half  my  accom- 
plishments yet.  Wait  till  we  are  settled  in  the 
Plains,  and  1 11  show  you  how  I  bark  at  my  troop. 
You  were  going  to  say,  darling  ? 

Mrs.  G.  I — I  don't  like  to,  after  that  voice. 
{Tremulously.)  Phil,  never  you  dare  to  speak  to 
me  in  that  tone,  whatever  I  may  do! 

Capt.  G.  My  poor  little  love!  Why,  you're 
shaking  all  over.     I  am  so  sorry.     Of  course  I 


The  Garden  of  Eden  91 

never  meant  to  upset  you.  Don't  tell  me  any- 
thing.    I'm  a  brute. 

Mrs.  G.  No,  you  aren't,  and  I  will  tell —  There 
was  a  man. 

Capt.  G.  {Lightly.)  Was  there?  Lucky 
man! 

Mrs.  G.  {In  a  whisper.)  And  I  thought  1 
cared  for  him. 

Capt.  G.     Still  luckier  man!    Well.? 

Mrs.  G.  And  1  thought  1  cared  for  him — and  I 
didn't — and  then  you  came — and  I  cared  for  you 
very,  very  much  indeed.  That's  all.  {Face  hid- 
den.)    You  aren't  angry,  are  you  ? 

Capt.  G.  Angry?  Not  in  the  least.  {Aside.) 
Good  Lord,  what  have  I  done  to  deserve  this 
angel  ? 

Mrs.  G.  {Aside.)  And  he  never  asked  for  the 
name!  How  funny  men  are!  But  perhaps  it's 
as  well. 

Capt.  G.  That  man  will  go  to  heaven  because 
you  once  thought  you  cared  for  him.  'Wonder 
if  you'll  ever  drag  me  up  there  ? 

Mrs.  G.     {Firmly.)     'Sha'n't  go  if  you  don't. 

Capt.  G.  Thanks.  I  say,  Pussy,  1  don't  know 
much  about  your  religious  beliefs.  You  were 
brought  up  to  believe  in  a  heaven  and  all  that, 
weren't  you  ? 

Mrs.  G.  Yes.  But  it  was  a  pincushion  heaven, 
with  hymn-books  in  all  the  pews. 


92  The  Garden  of  Eden 

Capt.  G.  {Waggmg  his  head  with  intense  con- 
viction.)    Nevermind.     There  is  a /)/^A/:^  heaven. 

Mrs.  G.  Where  do  you  bring  that  message 
from,  my  prophet } 

Capt.  G.  Here!  Because  we  care  for  each 
other.     So  it's  all  right. 

Mrs.  G.  {As  a  troop  of  langiirs  crash  through 
the  branches.)  So  it's  all  right.  But  Darwin 
says  that  we  came  from  those  ! 

Capt.  G.  {Placidly.)  Ah!  Darwin  was  never 
in  love  with  an  angel.  That  settles  it.  Sstt,  you 
brutes!  Monkeys,  indeed!  You  shouldn't  read 
those  books. 

Mrs.  G.  {Folding  her  hands.)  If  it  pleases 
my  Lord  the  King  to  issue  proclamation. 

Capt.  G.  Don't,  dear  one.  There  are  no 
orders  between  us.  Only  I'd  rather  you  didn't. 
They  lead  to  nothing,  and  bother  people's  heads. 

Mrs.  G.     Like  your  first  engagement. 

Capt.  G.  ( With  an  immense  calm.)  That 
was  a  necessary  evil  and  led  to  you.  Are  you 
nothing? 

Mrs.  G.     Not  so  very  much,  am  I  ? 

Capt.  G.     All  this  world  and  the  next  to  me. 

Mrs.  G.  {yery  softly.)  My  boy  of  boys! 
Shall  I  teWyou  something? 

Capt.  G.  Yes,  if  it's  not  dreadful — about 
other  men. 

Mrs.  G.    It's  about  my  own  bad  little  self. 


The  Garden  of  Eden  •  93 

Capt.  G.     Then  it  must  be  good.    Go  on,  dear. 

Mrs.  G.  {Slowly.)  I  don't  know  why  I'm 
telling  you,  Pip;  but  if  ever  you  marry  again  — 
(fiifeiiude.)  Take  your  hand  from  my  mouth  or 
I'll  bite/  In  the  future,  then  remember — I  don't 
know  quite  how  to  put  it! 

Capt.  G.  (Snorting  indignantly.)  Don't  try. 
"Marry  again,"  indeed! 

Mrs.  G.  I  must.  Listen,  my  husband.  Never, 
never,  never  tell  your  wife  anything  that  you  do 
not  wish  her  to  remember  and  think  over  all  her 
life.  Because  a  woman — yes,  I  am  a  woman — 
can't  forget. 

Capt.  G.     By  Jove,  how  do  yoii  know  that  ? 

Mrs.  G.  {Confusedly.)  I  don't.  I'm  only 
guessing.  I  am — I  was — a  silly  little  girl;  but  I 
feel  that  I  know  so  much,  oh,  so  very  much  more 
than  you,  dearest.    To  begin  with,  I'm  your  wife. 

Capt.  G.     So  I  have  been  led  to  believe. 

Mrs.  G.  And  I  shall  want  to  know  every  one 
of  your  secrets — to  share  everything  you  know 
with  you.     {Stares  round  desperately.) 

Capt.  G.  So  you  shall,  dear,  so  you  shall — 
but  don't  look  like  that. 

Mrs.  G.  For  your  own  sake  don't  stop  me, 
Phil.  I  shall  never  talk  to  you  in  this  way  again. 
You  must  7/0/ tell  me!  At  least,  not  now.  Later 
on,  when  I'm  an  old  matron  it  won't  matter,  but 
if  you  love  me,  be  very  good  to  me  now;  for 


94  The  Garden  of  Eden 

this  part  of  my  life  I  shall  never  forget!  Have  I 
made  you  understand  ? 

Capt.  G.  1  think  so,  child.  Have  I  said  any- 
thing yet  that  you  disapprove  of  ? 

Mrs.  G.  Will  you  be  very  angry  ?  That — 
that  voice,  and  what  you  said  about  the  engage- 
ment— 

Capt.  G.  But  you  asked  to  be  told  that,  darl- 
ing. 

Mrs.  G.  And  thafs  why  you  shouldn't  have 
told  me!  You  must  be  the  judge,  and,  oh,  Pip, 
dearly  as  1  love  you,  1  sha'n't  be  able  to  help  you! 
1  shall  hinder  you,  and  you  must  judge  in  spite 
of  me! 

Capt.  G.  {Meditatively.)  We  have  a  great 
many  things  to  find  out  together,  God  help  us 
both — say  so,  Pussy — but  we  shall  understand 
each  other  better  every  day;  and  1  think  I'm  be- 
ginning to  see  now.  How  in  the  world  did  you 
come  to  know  just  the  importance  of  giving  me 
just  that  lead  '? 

Mrs.  G.  I've  told  you  that  h/o;/'/ know.  Only 
somehow  it  seemed  that,  in  all  this  new  life,  I  was 
being  guided  for  your  sake  as  well  as  my  own. 

Capt.  G.  (^Aside.)  Then  MafOin  was  right! 
They  know,  and  we — we're  blind — all  of  us. 
{Lightly.)  'Getting  a  little  beyond  our  depth, 
dear,  aren't  we  ?  I'll  remember,  and,  if  I  fail,  let 
me  be  punished  as  1  deserve. 


The  Garden  of  Eden  05 

Mrs.  G.  There  shall  be  no  punishment.  We'll 
start  into  life  together  from  here — you  and  I — 
and  no  one  else. 

Capt.  G.  And  no  one  else.  {A  pause.)  Your 
eyelashes  are  all  wet,  Sweet?  Was  there  ever 
such  a  quaint  little  Absurdity  ? 

Mrs.  G.  Was  there  ever  such  nonsense  talked 
before  ? 

Capt.  G.  {Knocking  the  ashes  out  of  his  pipe.') 
'Tisn't  what  we  say,  it's  what  we  don't  say,  that 
helps.  And  it's  all  the  profoundest  philosophy. 
But  no  one  would  understand — even  if  it  were 
put  into  a  book. 

Mrs.  G.  The  idea!  No — only  we  ourselves, 
or  people  like  ourselves — if  there  are  any  people 
like  us. 

Capt.  G.  {Magisterially.)  All  people,  not 
like  ourselves,  are  blind  idiots. 

Mrs.  G.  {Wiping  her  eyes.)  Do  you  think, 
then,  that  there  are  any  people  as  happy  as  we 
are? 

Capt.  G.  'Must  be — unless  we've  appropriated 
all  the  happiness  in  the  world. 

Mrs.  G.  {Looking  toward  Simla.)  Poor  dears! 
Just  fancy  if  we  have! 

Capt.  G.  Then  we'll  hang  on  to  the  whole 
show,  for  it's  a  great  deal  too  jolly  to  lose — eh, 
wife  0'  mine  ? 

Mrs.  G.     O  Pip!    Pip!     How  much  of  you  is 


96  The  Garden  of  Eden 

a  solemn,  married  man  and  how  much  a  horrid, 
slangy  schoolboy  ? 

Capt.  G.  When  you  tell  me  how  much  of  you 
was  eighteen  last  birthday  and  how  much  is  as 
old  as  the  Sphinx  and  twice  as  mysterious,  per- 
haps I'll  attend  to  you.  Lend  me  that  banjo. 
The  spirit  moveth  me  to  jowl  at  the  sunset. 

Mrs.  G.  Mind!  It's  not  tuned.  Ah!  How 
that  jars. 

Capt.  G.  {Turning pegs.)  It's  amazingly  dif- 
ficult to  keep  a  banjo  to  proper  pitch. 

Mrs.  G.  It's  the  same  with  all  musical  instru- 
ments.    What  shall  it  be  ? 

Capt.  G.  "  Vanity,"  and  let  the  hills  hear. 
{Sings  through  the  first  and  half  of  the  second 
verse.  Turning  to  Mrs.  G.)  Now,  chorus  1 
Sing,  Pussy! 

Both  Together.  {Con  brio,  to  the  horror  of 
the  monkeys  who  are  settling  for  the  night.) — 

"Vanity,  all  is  Vanity,"  said  Wisdom,  scorning  me  — 

I  clasped  my  true  Love's  tender  hand  and  answered 
frank  and  free — ee  : — 
"  If  this  be  Vanity  who'd  be  wise  ? 

If  this  be  Vanity  who'd  be  wise  ? 

If  this  be  Vanity  who'd  be  wi— ise 

{Crescendo.)     Vanity  let  it  be  !  " 

Mrs.  G.     {Defiantly  to  the  grey  of  the  evening 
sky.)     "Vanity  let  it  be!" 
Echo.     {From  the  Fagoo  spur.)    Let  it  be! 


FATIMA 


FATIMA 

And  you  may  go  into  every  room  of  the  house  and  see 
everything  that  is  there,  but  into  the  Blue  Room  you  must  not 
go. — The  Story  of  Blue  Beard. 

Scene. —  The  Gadsbys'  bungalow  in  the  Plains. 
Time,  1 1  a.  m.  on  a  Sunday  morning.  Captain 
Gadsby,  m  his  shirt-sleeves,  is  bending  over  a 
complete  set  of  Hussar's  equipment,  from  sad- 
dle to  picketing-rope,  •which  is  neatly  spread 
aver  the  floor  of  his  study.  He  is  smoking  an 
unclean  briar,  and  his  forehead  is  puckered 
with  thought. 

Capt.  G.  (  To  himself,  fingering  a  headstall.) 
Jack's  an  ass.  There's  enough  brass  on  this  to 
load  a  mule — and,  if  the  Americans  know  any- 
thing about  anything,  it  can  be  cut  down  to  a  bit 
only.  'Don't  want  the  watering-bridle,  either. 
Humbug! — Half  a  dozen  sets  of  chains  and  pul- 
leys for  one  horse!  Rot!  {Scratching  his  head.) 
Now,  let's  consider  it  all  over  from  the  beginning. 
By  Jove,  I've  forgotten  the  scale  of  weights! 
Ne'er  mind.  'Keep  the  bit  only,  and  eliminate 
every  boss  from  the  crupper  to  breastplate.  No 
breastplate  at  all.     Simple  leather  strap  across 

99 


loo  Faiima 

the  breast— like  the  Russians.  Hi!  Jack  never 
thought  of  that ! 

Mrs.  G.  {Entering  hastily,  her  hand  bound  in 
a  cloth.)  Oh,  Pip,  I've  scalded  my  hand  over 
that  horrid,  horrid  Tiparee  jam! 

Capt.  G.     {Absently.)     Eh!    Wha-at? 

Mrs.  G.  {With  round-eyed  reproach.)  I've 
scalded  it  aiv-in\\y\  Aren't  you  sorry?  And  I 
did  so  want  that  jam  to  jam  properly. 

Capt.  G.  Poor  little  woman!  Let  me  kiss  the 
place  and  make  it  well.  {Unrolling  bandage.) 
You  small  sinner!  Where's  that  scald?  1  can't 
see  it, 

Mrs.  G.  On  the  top  of  the  little  finger. 
There! — It's  a  most  'normous  big  burn! 

Capt.  G.  {Kissing  little  finger.)  Baby!  Let 
Hyder  look  after  the  jam.  You  know  I  don't 
care  for  sweets. 

Mrs.  G.     In-deed.? — Pip! 

Capt.  G.  Not  of  that  kind,  anyhow.  And 
now  run  along,  Minnie,  and  leave  me  to  my  own 
base  devices.     I'm  busy. 

Mrs.  G.  {Calmly  settling  herself  in  long 
chair.)  So  I  see.  What  a  mess  you're  making! 
Why  have  you  brought  all  that  smelly  leather 
stuff  into  the  house  ? 

Capt.  G.     To  play  with.    Do  you  mind,  dear  ? 

Mrs.  G.     Let  me  play  too.     I'd  like  it. 

Capt.  G.     I'm   afraid  you   wouldn't.   Pussy — 


Fatima  .  lOi 

Don't  you  think  that  jam  will  burn,  or  whatever 
it  is  that  jam  does  when  it's  not  looked  after  by  a 
clever  little  housekeeper  ? 

Mrs.  G.  1  thought  you  said  Hyder  could  at- 
tend to  it.  I  left  him  in  the  veranda,  stirring— 
when  I  hurt  myself  so. 

Capt.  G.  {His  eye  returning  to  the  equipment.) 
Po-oor  little  woman! — Three  pounds  four  and 
seven  is  three  eleven,  and  that  can  be  cut  down 
to  two  eight,  with  just  a  lee-i\e  care,  without 
weakening  anything.  Farriery  is  all  rot  in  in- 
competent hands.  What's  the  use  of  a  shoe-case 
when  a  man's  scouting.?  He  can't  stick  it  on 
with  a  lick— like  a  stamp— the  shoe  !    Skittles! 

Mrs.  G.  What's  skittles?  Pah!  What  is 
this  leather  cleaned  with  ? 

Capt.  G.  Cream  and  champagne  and —  Look 
here,  dear,  do  you  really  want  to  talk  to  me  about 
anything  important  ? 

Mrs.  G.  No.  I've  done  my  accounts,  and  I 
thought  I'd  like  to  see  what  you're  doing. 

Capt.  G.  Well,  love,  now  you've  seen  and— 
Vv^ould  you  mind .?—  That  is  to  say— Minnie,  I 
really  am  busy. 

Mrs.  G.     You  want  me  to  go  ? 

Capt.  G.  Yes,  dear,  for  a  little  while.  This 
tobacco  will  hang  in  your  dress,  and  saddlery 
doesn't  interest  you. 

Mrs.  G.     Everything  you  do  interests  me,  Rp. 


102  Fatima 

Capt.  G.  Yes,  I  know,  I  know,  dear.  I'll  tell 
you  all  about  it  some  day  when  I've  put  a  head 
on  this  thing.     In  the  meantime  — 

Mrs.  G.  I'm  to  be  turned  out  of  the  room  like 
a  troublesome  child  } 

Capt.  G.  No-o.  I  don't  mean  that  exactly. 
But,  you  see,  1  shall  be  tramping  up  and  down, 
shifting  these  things  to  and  fro,  and  1  shall  be  in 
your  way.     Don't  you  think  so  } 

Mrs.  G.  Can't  I  lift  them  about  ?  Let  me  try. 
{Reaches  forward  to  trooper's  saddle.) 

Capt.  G.  Good  gracious,  child,  don't  touch  it. 
You'll  hurt  yourself.  {Picking  up  saddle.)  Lit- 
tle girls  aren't  expected  to  handle  mtmdahs. 
Now,  where  would  you  like  it  put?  {Holds  sad- 
dle above  his  head.) 

Mrs.  G.  {A  break  in  her  voice.)  Nowhere. 
Pip,  how  good  you  are— and  how  strong!  Oh, 
what's  that  ugly  red  streak  inside  your  arm  ? 

Capt.  G.  {Lowering  saddle  quickly.)  Noth- 
ing. It's  a  mark  of  sorts.  {Aside.)  And  Jack's 
coming  to  tiffin  with  his  notions  all  cut  and 
dried! 

Mrs.  G.  I  know  it's  a  mark,  but  I've  never 
seen  it  before.  It  runs  all  up  the  arm.  What  is 
it? 

Capt.  G.     A  cut — if  you  want  to  know. 

Mrs.  G.  Want  to  know!  Of  course  I  do!  I 
can't  have  my  husband  cut  to  pieces  in  this  way. 


Fatima  103 

How  did  it  come?  Was  it  an  accident?  Tell 
me,  Pip. 

Capt.  G.  {Grimly.)  No.  'Twasn't  an  acci- 
dent.    I  got  it — from  a  man — in  Afgiianistan. 

Mrs.  G.  In  action  ?  Oil,  Pip,  and  you  never 
told  me! 

Capt.  G.     I'd  forgotten  all  about  it. 

Mrs.  G.  Hold  up  your  arm!  What  a  horrid, 
ugly  scar!  Are  you  sure  it  doesn't  hurt  now! 
How  did  the  man  give  it  you! 

Capt.  G.  {Desperately  looking  at  his  watch.) 
With  a  knife.  1  came  down — old  Van  Loo  did, 
that's  to  say — and  fell  on  my  leg,  so  I  couldn't 
run.  And  then  this  man  came  up  and  began 
chopping  at  me  as  I  sprawled. 

Mrs.  G.  Oh,  don't,  don't!  That's  enough! — 
Well,  what  happened  ? 

Capt.  G.  I  couldn't  get  to  my  holster,  and 
Mafflin  came  round  the  corner  and  stopped  the 
performance. 

Mrs.  G.  How  ?  He's  such  a  lazy  man,  I  don't 
believe  he  did. 

Capt.  G.  Don't  you  ?  I  don't  think  the  man 
had  much  doubt  about  it.     Jack  cut  his  head  off. 

Mrs.  G.  Cut— his— head— off!  "With  one 
blow,"  as  they  say  in  the  books  ? 

Capt.  G.  I'm  not  sure.  1  was  too  interested 
in  myself  to  know  much  about  it.  Anyhow,  the 
head  was  off,  and  Jack  was  punching  old  Van 


104  Fatima 

Loo  in  the  ribs  to  make  him  get  up.  Now  you 
know  all  about  it,  dear,  and  now  — 

Mrs.  G,  You  want  me  to  go,  of  course.  You 
never  told  me  about  this,  though  I've  been  mar- 
ried to  you  for  ever  so  long;  and  you  never  would 
have  told  me  if  1  hadn't  found  out;  and  you 
never  do  tell  me  anything  about  yourself,  or 
what  you  do,  or  what  you  take  an  interest  in. 

Capt.  G.  Darling,  I'm  always  with  you,  aren't 
I? 

Mrs.  G.  Always  in  my  pocket,  you  were  go- 
ing to  say.  I  know  you  are;  but  you  are  always 
thinking  away  from  me. 

Capt.  G.  {Trying  to  hide  a  smile.)  Am  I  ?  I 
wasn't  aware  of  it.     I'm  awf'ly  sorry. 

Mrs.  G.  (Piteously.)  Oh,  don't  make  fun  of 
me!  Pip,  you  know  what  I  mean.  When  you 
are  reading  one  of  those  things  about  Cavalry, 
by  that  idiotic  Prince — why  doesn't  he  be  a  Prince 
instead  of  a  stable-boy  ? 

Capt.  G.  Prince  Kraft  a  stable-boy —  Oh,  my 
Aunt!  Never  mind,  dear.  You  were  going  to 
say  ? 

Mrs.  G.  It  doesn't  matter;  you  don't  care  for 
what  I  say.  Only — only  you  get  up  and  walk 
about  the  room,  staring  in  front  of  you,  and  then 
Mafflin  comes  in  to  dinner,  and  after  I'm  in  the 
drawing-room  I  can  hear  you  and  him  talking, 
and  talking,  and  talking,  about  things  I  can't  un- 


Fatima  105 

derstand,  and — oh,  I  get  so  tired  and  feel  so 
lonely! — I  don't  want  to  complain  and  be  a  trou- 
ble, Pip;  but  I  do — indeed  1  do! 

Capt.  G.  My  poor  darling!  I  never  thought 
of  that.  Why  don't  you  ask  some  nice  people  in 
to  dinner? 

Mrs.  G.  Nice  people!  Where  am  I  to  find 
them  ?  Horrid  frumps!  And  if  I  did,  I  shouldn't 
be  amused.     You  know  I  only  want  jfoz/. 

Capt.  G.  And  you  have  me  surely,  Sweet- 
heart ? 

Mrs.  G.  I  have  not!  Pip,  why  don't  you 
take  me  into  your  life .? 

Capt.  G.  More  than  I  do  ?  That  would  be 
difficult,  dear. 

Mrs.  G.  Yes,  I  suppose  it  would — to  you. 
I'm  no  help  to  you — no  companion  to  you;  and 
you  like  to  have  it  so. 

Capt.  G.  Aren't  you  a  little  unreasonable, 
Pussy  ? 

Mrs.  G.  {Stamping  her  foot.')  I'm  the  most 
reasonable  woman  in  the  world — when  I'm 
treated  properly. 

Capt.  G.  And  since  when  have  I  been  treat- 
ing you  improperly  } 

Mrs.  G.  Always — and  since  the  beginning. 
You  know  you  have. 

Capt.  G.  I  don't;  but  I'm  willing  to  be  con- 
vinced. 


lo6  Fatima 

Mrs.  G.     {Pointing  to  sadcllery.)    There! 

Capt.  G.     How  do  you  mean  ? 

Mrs.  G.  What  does  all  that  mean  ?  Why  am 
1  not  to  be  told  .^    Is  it  so  precious  } 

Capt.  G.  I  forget  its  exact  Government  value 
just  at  present.  It  means  that  it  is  a  great  deal 
too  heavy. 

Mrs.  G.    Then  why  do  you  touch  it  ? 

Capt.  G.  To  make  it  lighter.  See  here,  little 
love,  I've  one  notion  and  Jack  has  another,  but  we 
are  both  agreed  that  all  this  equipment  is  about 
thirty  pounds  too  heavy.  The  thing  is  how  to 
cut  it  down  without  weakening  any  part  of  it, 
and,  at  the  same  time,  allowing  the  trooper  to 
carry  everything  he  wants  for  his  own  comfort 
— socks  and  shirts  and  things  of  that  kind. 

Mrs.  G.  Why  doesn't  he  pack  them  in  a  little 
trunk  } 

Capt.  G.  {Kissing  her.)  Oh,  you  darling! 
Pack  them  in  a  little  trunk,  indeed!  Hussars 
don't  carry  trunks,  and  it's  a  most  important 
thing  to  make  the  horse  do  all  the  carrying. 

Mrs.  G.  But  why  need  you  bother  about  it  ? 
You're  not  a  trooper. 

Capt.  G.  No;  but  I  command  a  few  score  of 
him;  and  equipment  is  nearly  everything  in  these 
days. 

Mrs.  G.     More  than  mesf 

Capt.  G.     Stupid!    Of  course  not;  but  it's  a 


Fatima  107 

matter  that  I'm  tremendously  interested  in,  because 
if  I  or  Jack,  or  /  and  Jack,  work  out  some  sort  of 
lighter  saddlery  and  all  that,  it's  possible  that  we 
may  get  it  adopted. 

Mrs.  G.     How? 

Capt.  G.  Sanctioned  at  Home,  where  they 
will  make  a  sealed  pattern — a  pattern  that  all  the 
saddlers  must  copy — and  so  it  will  be  used  by  all 
the  regiments. 

Mrs.  G.    And  that  interests  you  ? 

Capt.  G.  It's  part  of  my  profession,  y'know, 
and  my  profession  is  a  good  deal  to  me.  Every- 
thing in  a  soldier's  equipment  is  important,  and 
if  we  can  improve  that  equipment,  so  much  the 
better  for  the  soldiers  and  for  us. 

Mrs.  G.     Who's  "us"? 

Capt.  G.  Jack  and  1;  only  Jack's  notions  are 
too  radical.     What's  that  big  sigh  for,  Minnie  ? 

Mrs.  G.  Oh,  nothing — and  you've  kept  all 
this  a  secret  from  me!    Why  ? 

Capt..  G.  Not  a  secret,  exactly,  dear.  I  didn't 
say  anything  about  it  to  you  because  I  didn't 
think  it  would  amuse  you. 

Mrs.  G.     And  am  I  only  made  to  be  amused  ? 

Capt.  G.  No,  of  course.  I  merely  mean  that 
it  couldn't  interest  you. 

Mrs.  G.  It's  your  work  and — and  if  you'd  let 
me,  I'd  count  all  these  things  up.  If  they  are  too 
heavy,  you   know  by  how  much  they  are  too 


io8  Fatima 

heavy,  and  you  must  have  a  list  of  things  made 
out  to  your  scale  of  lightness,  and  — 

Capt.  G.  1  have  got  both  scales  somewhere 
in  my  head;  but  it's  hard  to  tell  how  light  you 
can  make  a  headstall,  for  instance,  until  you've 
actually  had  a  model  made. 

Mrs.  G.  But  if  you  read  out  the  list,  I  could 
copy  it  down,  and  pin  it  up  there  just  above  your 
table.     Wouldn't  that  do  ? 

Capt.  G.  It  would  be  awf  ly  nice,  dear,  but  it 
would  be  giving  you  trouble  for  nothing.  I  can't 
work  that  way.  1  go  by  rule  of  thumb.  I  know 
the  present  scale  of  weights,  and  the  other  one — 
the  one  that  I'm  trying  to  work  to— will  shift  and 
vary  so  much  that  I  couldn't  be  certain,  even  if  I 
wrote  it  down. 

Mrs.  G.  I'm  50  sorry.  I  thought  I  might  help. 
Is  there  anything  else  that  I  could  be  of  use  in .? 

Capt.  G.  {Loohhig  round  the  room.)  I  can't 
think  of  anything.  You're  always  helping  me, 
you  know. 

Mrs.  G.     Am  I  ?    How  ? 

Capt.  G.  You  are  you  of  course,  and  as  long 
as  you're  near  me— I  can't  explain  exactly,  but 
it's  in  the  air. 

Mrs.  G.  And  that's  why  you  wanted  to  send 
me  away  ? 

Capt.  G.  That's  only  when  I'm  trying  to  do 
work — grubby  work  like  this. 


Fatima  109 

Mrs.  G.    Mafflin's  better,  then,  isn't  he  ? 

Capt.  G.  {Rashly.)  Of  course  he  is.  Jack 
and  I  have  been  thinking  along  the  same  groove 
for  two  or  three  years  about  this  equipment.  It's 
our  hobby,  and  it  may  really  be  useful  some 
day. 

Mrs.  G.  {After  a  pause.)  And  that's  all  that 
you  have  away  from  me  } 

Capt.  G.  It  isn't  very  far  away  from  you 
now.  Take  care  the  oil  on  that  bit  doesn't  come 
off  on  your  dress. 

Mrs.  G.  I  wish — I  wish  so  much  that  I  could 
really  help  you.  I  believe  I  could — if  I  left  the 
room.     But  that's  not  what  I  mean. 

Capt.  G.  {Aside.)  Give  me  patience!  I  wish 
she  would  go.  {Aloud.)  I  assure  you  you  can't 
do  anything  for  me,  Minnie,  and  I  must  really 
settle  down  to  this,     Where's  my  pouch  ? 

Mrs.  G.  {Crossing  to  writing-table.)  Here 
you  are,  Bear.  What  a  mess  you  keep  your 
table  in ! 

Capt.  G.  Don't  touch  it.  There's  a  method 
in  my  madness,  though  you  mightn't  think  of  it. 

Mrs.  G.  {At  table.)  I  want  to  look—  Do 
you  keep  accounts,  Pip  ? 

Capt.  G.  {Bending  over  saddlery.)  Of  a  sort. 
Are  you  rummaging  among  the  Troop  papers  ? 
Be  careful. 

Mrs.   G.     Why?    I   sha'n't  disturb  anything. 


I  lo  Faiima 

Good  gracious!  I  had  no  idea  tliat  you  had  any- 
thing to  do  with  so  many  sick  horses, 

Capt.  G.  'Wish  I  hadn't,  but  they  insist  on 
failing  sick.  Minnie,  if  1  were  you  I  really  should 
not  investigate  those  papers.  You  may  come 
across  something  that  you  won't  like. 

Mrs.  G.  Why  will  you  always  treat  me  like 
a  child  ?  I  know  I'm  not  displacing  the  horrid 
things. 

Capt.  G.  {Resignedly.)  Very  well,  then. 
Don't  blame  me  if  anything  happens.  Play 
with  the  table  and  let  me  go  on  with  the  sad- 
dlery. {Slipping  hand  into  trousers-pocket.)  Oh, 
the  deuce! 

Mrs.  G.     {Her  back  to  G.)    What's  that  for? 

Capt.  G.  Nothing.  {Aside.)  There's  not 
much  in  it,  but  I  wish  I'd  torn  it  up. 

Mrs.  G.  {Turning  over  contents  of  table.)  I 
know  you'll  hate  me  for  this;  but  1  do  want  to 
see  what  your  work  is  like.  {A  pause.)  Pip, 
what  are  "  farcy-buds  "  ? 

Capt.  G.  Hah!  Would  you  really  like  to 
know  .^    They  aren't  pretty  things. 

Mrs.  G.  This  Journal  of  Veterinary  Science 
says  they  are  of  "absorbing  interest."    Tell  me. 

Capt.  G.  {Aside.)  It  may  turn  her  attention. 
Gives  a  long  and  designedly  loathsome 
account  of  glanders  and  farcy. 

Mrs.  G.     Oh,  that's  enough.     Don't  go  on! 


Fatima  1 1 1 

Capt.  G.  But  you  wanted  to  know —  Then 
these  things  suppurate  and  matterate  and  spread  — 

Mrs.  G.  Pip,  you're  making  me  sick!  You're 
a  horrid,  disgusting  schoolboy. 

Capt.  G.  {On  his  knees  among  the  bridles.) 
You  asked  tp  be  told.  It's  not  my  fault  if  you 
worry  me  into  talking  about  horrors. 

Mrs.  G.     'Why  didn't  you  say — No  ? 

Capt.  G.  Good  Heavens,  child!  Have  you 
come  in  here  simply  to  bully  me  ? 

Mrs.  G.  \h\A\yyoii?  How  could  I!  You're 
so  strong.  {Hysterically.)  Strong  enough  to 
pick  me  up  and  put  me  outside  the  door  and 
leave  me  there  to  cry.     Aren't  you? 

Capt.  G.  It  seems  to  me  that  you're  an  irra- 
tional little  baby.     Are  you  quite  well  ? 

Mrs.  G.  Do  I  look  ill  ?  {Returning  to  table.) 
"Who  is  your  lady  friend  with  the  big  grey  envel- 
ope and  the  fat  monogram  outside  ? 

Capt.  G.  {Aside.)  Then  it  wasn't  locked 
up,  confound  it.  {Aloud.)  "God  made  her, 
therefore  let  her  pass  for  a  woman."  You  re- 
member what  farcy-buds  are  like  } 

Mrs.  G.  {Showing  envelope.)  This  has  noth- 
ing to  do  with  them.  I'm  going  to  open  it. 
May  I? 

Capt.  G.  Certainly,  if  you  want  to.  I'd 
sooner  you  didn't,  though.  I  don't  ask  to  look 
at  your  letters  to  the  Deercourt  girl. 


1 1 2  Fatima 

Mrs.  G.  You'd  better  not,  Sir!  {Takes  letter 
from  envelope.)  Now,  may  I  look?  If  you  say 
no,  I  shall  cry. 

Capt.  G.  You've  never  cried  in  my  knowledge 
of  you,  and  I  don't  believe  you  could. 

Mrs.  G.  I  feel  very  like  it  to-day,  Pip. 
Don't  be  hard  on  me.  {Reads  letter.)  It  begins 
in  the  middle,  without  any  "Dear  Captain 
Gadsby,"  or  anything.     How  funny! 

Capt.  G.  {Aside.)  No,  it's  not  Dear  Captain 
Gadsby,  or  anything,  now.     How  funny! 

Mrs.  G.  What  a  strange  letter!  {Reads.) 
"And  so  the  moth  has  come  too  near  the  candle 
at  last,  and  has  been  singed  into — shall  1  say  Re- 
spectability ?  I  congratulate  him,  and  hope  he 
will  be  as  happy  as  he  deserves  to  be."  What 
does  that  mean  ?  Is  she  congratulating  you 
about  our  marriage  ? 

Capt.  G.     Yes,  I  suppose  so. 

Mrs.  G.  {Still  reading  letter.)  She  seems  to 
be  a  particular  friend  of  yours. 

Capt.  G.  Yes.  She  was  an  excellent  matron 
of  sorts — a  Mrs.  Herriott — wife  of  a  Colonel  Her- 
riott.  I  used  to  know  some  of  her  people  at 
Home  long  ago — before  I  came  out. 

Mrs.  G.  Some  Colonels'  wives  are  young 
— as  young  as  me.  I  knew  one  who  was 
younger. 

Capt.  G.    Then  it  couldn't  have  been  Mrs. 


■? 


Copyright,  1899,  by  H.  M.  C  aldwell  Co. 

" '  What  a  strange  letter. 


Fatima  i  \} 

Harriott.    She  was    old  enough  to  have  been 
your  mother,  dear. 

Mrs.  G.  I  remember  now.  Mrs.  Scargill  was 
talking  about  her  at  the  Duffins'  tennis,  before 
you  came  for  me,  on  Tuesday.  Captain  Mafflin 
said  she  was  a  "dear  old  woman."  Do  you 
know,  I  think  Mafflin  is  a  very  clumsy  man  with 
his  feet. 

Capt.  G.  {Aside.)  Good  old  Jack!  {Aloud.) 
Why,  dear? 

Mrs.  G.  He  had  put  his  cup  down  on  the 
ground  then,  and  he  literally  stepped  into  it. 
Some  of  the  tea  spirted  over  my  dress— the  grey 
one.     I  meant  to  tell  you  about  it  before. 

Capt.  G.  {Aside.)  There  are  the  makings  of 
a  strategist  about  Jack,  though  his  methods  are 
coarse.  {Aloud.)  You'd  better  get  a  new  dress, 
then.  {Aside.)  Let  us  pray  that  that  will  turn 
her. 

Mrs.  G.  Oh,  it  isn't  stained  in  the  least.  I 
only  thought  that  I'd  tell  you.  {Returning  to 
letter.)  W^/?^/ an  extraordinary  person !  {Reads.) 
"  But  need  I  remind  you  that  you  have  taken 
upon  yourself  a  charge  of  wardship  " — what  in 
the  world  is  a  charge  of  wardship  ? — "  which,  as 
you  yourself  know,  may  end  in  Consequences  " — 

Capt.  G.  {Aside.)  It's  safest  to  let  'em  see 
everything  as  they  come  across  it;  but  'seems  to 
me  that  there  are  exceptions  to  the  rule.    {Aloud.) 


1 14  Fatima 

I  told  you  that  there  was  nothing  to  be  gained 
from  rearranging  my  table. 

Mrs.  G.  {Absently.)  What  ^o^s  the  woman 
mean  ?  She  goes  on  talking  about  Consequences 
—"almost  inevitable  Consequences"  with  a 
capital  C— for  half  a  page.  {Flushing  scarlet.) 
Oh,  good  gracious!     How  abominable! 

Capt.  G.  {Promptly.)  Do  you  think  so? 
Doesn't  it  show  a  sort  of  motherly  interest  in  us  ? 
{Aside.)  Thank  Heaven,  Harry  always  wrapped 
her  meaning  up  safely!  {Aloud.)  Is  it  abso- 
lutely necessary  to  go  on  with  the  letter,  darling  ? 

Mrs.  G.  It's  impertinent— it's  simply  horrid. 
What  right  has  this  woman  to  write  in  this  way 
to  you  ?    She  oughtn't  to. 

Capt.  G.  When  you  write  to  the  Deercourt 
girl,  I  notice  that  you  generally  fill  three  or  four 
sheets.  Can't  you  let  an  old  woman  babble  on 
paper  once  in  a  way?    She  means  well. 

Mrs.  G.  I  don't  care.  She  shouldn't  write, 
and  if  she  did,  you  ought  to  have  shown  me  her 
letter. 

Capt.  G.  Can't  you  understand  why  I  kept  it 
to  myself,  or  must  I  explain  at  length — as  I  ex- 
plained the  farcy-buds  ? 

Mrs.  G.  {Furiously.)  Pip  I  hate  you!  This  is 
as  bad  as  those  idiotic  saddle-bags  on  the  floor. 
Never  mind  whether  it  would  please  me  or  not, 
you  ought  to  have  given  it  to  me  to  read. 


Fatima  1 1 5 

Capt.  G.  It  comes  to  the  same  thing.  You 
took  it  yourself, 

Mrs.  G.  Yes,  but  if  I  hadn't  taken  it,  you 
wouldn't  have  said  a  word.  I  think  this  Harriet 
Herriott— it's  like  a  name  in  a  book — is  an  inter- 
fering old  Thing. 

Capt.  G.  {Aside.)  So  long  as  you  thoroughly 
understand  that  she  is  old,  1  don't  much  care 
what  you  think.  {Aloud.)  Very  good,  dear. 
Would  you  like  to  write  and  tell  her  so  ?  She's 
seven  thousand  miles  away. 

Mrs.  G.  I  don't  want  to  have  anything  to  do 
with  her,  but  you  ought  to  have  told  me.  ( Turn- 
ing to  last  page  of  letter.)  And  she  patronizes 
me,  too.  /'ve  never  seen  her!  {Reads.)  "I  do 
not  know  how  the  world  stands  with  you;  in  all 
human  probability  1  shall  never  know;  but  what- 
ever I  may  have  said  before,  I  pray  for  her  sake 
more  than  for  yours  that  all  may  be  well.  I  have 
learned  what  misery  means,  and  I  dare  not  wish 
that  any  one  dear  to  you  should  share  my  knowl- 
edge." 

Capt.  G.  Good  God!  Can't  you  leave  that 
letter  alone,  or,  at  least,  can't  you  refrain 
from  reading  it  aloud }  I've  been  through  it 
once.  Put  it  back  on  the  desk.  Do  you  hear 
me  ? 

Mrs.  G.  {Irresolutely.)  I  sh— sha'n't!  {Loohs 
at  G.'s  eyes.)    Oh,  Pip,  please!    I  didn't  mean  to 


110  Fatima 

make  you  angry —    'Deed,  I  didn't.     Pip,  I'm  so 
sorry,     I  know  I've  wasted  your  time  — 

Capt.  G.  {Grimly.)  You  have.  Now,  will 
you  be  good  enough  to  go — if  there  is  nothing 
more  in  my  room  that  you  are  anxious  to  pry 
into  } 

Mrs.  G.  {Putting  out  her  hands.)  Oh,  Pip, 
don't  look  at  me  like  that!  I've  never  seen  you 
look  like  that  before  and  it  hu-urts  me!  I'm 
sorry.  I  oughtn't  to  have  been  here  at  all,  and 
— and — and — {sobbing).  Oh,  be  good  to  me! 
Be  good  to  me!  There's  only  you — anywhere! 
Breaks  down  in  long  chair,  hiding  face  in 
cushions. 

Capt.  G.  {Aside.)  She  doesn't  know  how 
she  flicked  me  on  the  raw.  {Aloud,  tending 
over  chair.)  I  didn't  mean  to  be  harsh,  dear — I 
didn't  really.  You  can  stay  here  as  long  as  you 
please,  and  do  what  you  please.  Don't  cry  like 
that.  You'll  make  yourself  sick.  {Aside.) 
What  on  earth  has  come  over  her.^  {Aloud.) 
Darling,  what's  the  matter  with  you  ? 

Mrs.  G.  {Her  face  still  hidden.)  Let  me  go 
— let  me  go  to  my  own  room.  Only — only  say 
you  aren't  angry  with  me. 

Capt.  G.  Angry  with  you,  love!  Of  course 
not.  I  was  angry  with  myself.  I'd  lost  my 
temper  over  the  saddlery —  Don't  hide  your 
face,  Pussy.     I  want  to  kiss  it. 


Fatima  ny 

Bends  lower,  Mrs.  G.  slides  right  arm 
round  his  neck.  Several  interludes  and 
much  sobbing, 

Mrs.  G.  {In  a  whisper.)  I  didn't  mean  about 
the  jam  when  I  came  in  to  tell  you  — 

Capt.  G.  Bother  the  jam  and  the  equipment! 
(Jnterlude.') 

Mrs.  G.  {Still  more  faintly.)  My  finger 
wasn't  scalded  at  all.  I — I  wanted  to  speak  to 
you  about — about — something  else,  and — I  didn't 
know  how. 

Capt.  G.  Speak  away,  then.  {Looking  into 
her  eyes.)  Eh!  Wha— at.?  Minnie!  Here, 
don't  go  away !    You  don't  mean  } 

Mrs.  G.  {Hysterically,  backing  to  portiere  and 
hiding  her  face  in  its  folds.)  The — the  Almost 
Inevitable  Consequences !  {Flits  through  portiere 
as  G.  attempts  to  catch  her,  and  bolts  herself  in 
her  own  room.) 

Capt.  G.  {His  arms  full  of  portiere.)  Oh! 
{Sitting  down  heavily  in  chair.)  I'm  a  brute — a 
pig— a  bully,  and  a  blackguard.  My  poor,  poor 
little  darling !     "  Made  to  be  amused  only  ?  " — 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  SHADOW 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  SHADOW 

Knowing  Good  and  Evil. 

Scene. — The  Gadsbys'  bungalow  in  the  Plains,  in 
June.    Punkah-coolies  asleep  in  veranda  where 
Captain  Gadsby  is  walking  up  and  down.   Doc- 
tor's trap  in  porch.    Junior  Chaplain  drifting 
generally   and   uneasily    through   the   house. 
Time,  3.40.  a.  m.     Heat  94°  in  veranda. 
Doctor.     {Coming  into  veranda  and  touching 
G.  on  the  shoulder.)    You  had  better  go  in  and 
see  her  now. 

Capt.  G.  {The  color  of  good  cigar-ash.)  Eh, 
wha-at  }  Oh,  yes,  of  course.  What  did  you  say  ? 
Doctor.  {Syllable  by  syllable.)  Go — in — to 
— the — room — and — see — her.  She  wants  to 
speak  to  you.  {Aside,  testily.)  I  shall  have 
him  on  my  hands  next. 

Junior  Chaplain.      {In    half-lighted    dining- 
room.)    isn't  there  any  .?  — 
Doctor.     {Savagely.)     Hsh,  you  little  fool! 
Junior  Chaplain.       Let    me    do    my    work. 
Gadsby,  stop  a  minute!     {Edges  after  G.) 

Doctor.  Wait  till  she  sends  for  you  at  least — 
at  least.  Man  alive,  he'll  kill  you  if  you  go  in 
there  1    What  are  you  bothering  him  for? 

121 


122  The  y alley  of  the  Shadow 

Junior  Chaplain.  {Coming  into  veranda.)  I've 
given  him  a  stiff  brandy-peg.  He  wants  it. 
You've  forgotten  him  for  the  last  ten  hours  and 
— forgotten  yourself  too. 

G.  enters  bedroom,  which  is  lit  by  one 
night-lamp.  Ayah  on  the  floor  pre- 
tending to  be  asleep. 

Voice.  {From  the  bed.)  All  down  the  street 
— such  bontires!  Ayah,  go  and  put  them  out! 
{Appealingly.)  How  can  1  sleep  with  an  instal- 
lation of  the  CLE.  in  my  room  ?  No — not  CLE. 
Something  else.     What  was  it  ? 

Capt.  G.  {T'yiiig  to  control  his  voice.)  Min- 
nie, I'm  here.  {Bending  over  bed.)  Don't  you 
know  me,  Minnie  ?  It's  me — it's  Phil — it's  your 
husband. 

Voice.  {Mechanically.)  It's  me— it's  Phil — 
it's  your  husband. 

Capt.  G.  She  doesn't  know  me! —  It's  your 
own  husband,  darling. 

Voice.     Your  own  husband,  darling. 

Ayah.  {With  an  inspiration.)  Memsahib 
understanding  all  /  saying. 

Capt.  G.  Make  her  understand  me  then — 
quick! 

Ayah.  {Hand  on  Mrs.  G.'s  forehead.)  Mem- 
sahib !    Captain  Sahib  here. 

Voice.  Salam  do.  {Fretfully.)  I  know  I'm 
not  fit  to  be  seen. 


The  y alley  of  the  Shadow  123 

Ayah.  {Aside  to  G.)  Say  "  marneeii  "  same 
as  breakfash. 

Capt.  G.  Good-morning,  little  woman.  How 
are  we  to-day  ? 

Voice.  That's  Phil.  Poor  old  Phil.  (K/- 
ciously.)  Phil,  you  fool,  I  can't  see  you.  Come 
nearer. 

Capt.  G.  Minnie!  Minnie!  It's  me — you 
know  me  ? 

Voice.  {Mockingly.')  Of  course  I  do.  Who 
does  not  know  the  man  who  was  so  cruel  to  his 
wife — almost  the  only  one  he  ever  had  } 

Capt.  G.  Yes,  dear.  Yes — of  course,  of 
course.  But  won't  you  speak  to  him  .?*  He 
wants  to  speak  to  you  so  much. 

Voice.  They'd  never  let  him  in.  The  Doctor 
would  give  darwa^a  bund  even  if  he  were  in  the 
house.  He'll  never  come.  {Despairingly.')  O 
Judas!    Judas!    Judas! 

Capt.  G.  {Putting  out  his  arms.)  They  have 
let  him  in,  and  he  always  was  in  the  house.  Oh, 
my  love — don't  you  know  me  ? 

Voice.  (///  a  half  chant.)  "And  it  came  to 
pass  at  the  eleventh  hour  that  this  poor  soul  re- 
pented." It  knocked  at  the  gates,  but  they  were 
shut — tight  as  a  plaster — a  great,  burning  plaster. 
They  had  pasted  our  marriage  certificate  all  across 
the  door,  and  it  was  made  of  red-hot  iron — peo- 
ple really  ought  to  be  more  careful,  you  know. 


124  The  Valley  of  the  Shadow 

Capt.  G.  What  am  I  to  do?  {Takes  her  in 
his  arms.)    Minnie!  speak  to  me — to  Phil. 

Voice.  What  shall  I  say  ?  Oh,  tell  me  what 
to  say  before  it's  too  late!  They  are  all  going 
away  and  I  can't  say  anything. 

Capt.  G.  Say  you  know  me!  Only  say  you 
know  me! 

Doctor.  (JVho  has  entered  quietly.)  For 
pity's  sake  don't  take  it  too  much  to  heart, 
Gadsby.  It's  this  way  sometimes.  They  won't 
recognize.  They  say  all  sorts  of  queer  things — 
don't  you  see  ? 

Capt.  G.  All  right!  All  right!  Go  away 
now;  she'll  recognize  me;  you're  bothering  her. 
She  must — mustn't  she  ? 

Doctor.  She  will  before —  Have  I  your  leave 
to  try  ?  — 

Capt.  G.  Anything  you  please,  so  long  as 
she'll  know  me.  It's  only  a  question  of — hours, 
isn't  it  ? 

Doctor.  (Professionally.)  While  there's  life 
there's  hope,  y'know.     But  don't  build  on  it. 

Capt.  G.  I  don't.  Pull  her  together  if  it's 
possible.  {Aside.)  What  have  I  done  to  de- 
serve this  } 

Doctor.  {Bending  over  bed.)  Now,  Mrs. 
Gadsby !  We  shall  be  all  right  to-morrow.  You 
must  take  it,  or  I  sha'n't  let  Phil  see  you.  It  isn't 
nasty,  is  it  ? 


The  Valley  of  the  Shadow  125 

Voice.  Medicines!  Always  more  medicines! 
Can't  you  leave  me  alone  ? 

Capt.  G.     Oh,  leave  her  in  peace,  Doc! 

Doctor.  {Stepping  back, — aside.)  May  I  be 
forgiven  if  I've  done  wrong.  {Aloud.)  In  a  few 
minutes  she  ought  to  be  sensible;  but  I  daren't 
tell  you  to  look  for  anything.     It's  only  — 

Capt.  G.     What }    Go  on,  man. 

Doctor.  {In  a  whisper.)  Forcing  the  last 
rally. 

Capt,  G.     Then  leave  us  alone. 

Doctor.  Don't  mind  what  she  says  at  first,  if 
you  can.  They — they — they  turn  against  those 
they  love  most  sometimes  in  this. — It's  hard, 
but  — 

Capt.  G.  Am  I  her  husband  or  are  you  ? 
Leave  us  alone  for  what  time  we  have  to- 
gether. 

Voice.  {Confidentially.)  And  we  were  en- 
gaged quite  suddenly,  Emma.  I  assure  you  that 
I  never  thought  of  it  for  a  moment;  but,  oh,  my 
little  Me! — I  don't  know  wltat  I  should  have  done 
if  he  hadn't  proposed. 

Capt.  G.  She  thinks  of  that  Deercourt  girl  be- 
fore she  thinks  of  me.     {Aloud.)    Minnie! 

Voice.  Not  from  the  shops.  Mummy  dear. 
You  can  get  the  real  leaves  from  Kaintu,  and 
(laughing  weakly)  never  mind  about  the  blossoms 
— Dead  white  silk  is  only  fit  for  widows,  and  I 


126  The  Valley  of  the  Shadow 

won't  wear  it.  It's  as  bad  as  a  winding  sheet. 
(^A  long  pause.) 

Capt.  G.  I  never  asked  a  favor  yet.  If  there 
is  anybody  to  listen  to  me,  let  her  know  me — 
even  if  I  die  too! 

Voice.     {Very  faintly.')    Pip,  Pip  dear. 

Capt.  G.     I'm  here,  darling. 

Voice.  What  has  happened  ?  They've  been 
bothering  me  so  with  medicines  and  things,  and 
they  wouldn't  let  you  come  and  see  me.  I  was 
never  ill  before.     Am  1  ill  now  } 

Capt.  G.     You — you  aren't  quite  well. 

Voice.     How  funny!     Have  1  been  ill  long? 

Capt.  G.  Some  day;  but  you'll  be  all  right  in 
a  little  time. 

Voice.  Do  you  think  so,  Pip  ?  I  don't  feel 
well  and —  Oh !  what  have  they  done  to  my  hair  ? 

Capt.  G.     I  d-d-don't  know. 

Voice.     They've  cut  it  off.     What  a  shame! 

Capt.  G.  It  must  have  been  to  make  your 
head  cooler. 

Voice.  Just  like  a  boy's  wig.  Don't  I  look 
horrid .? 

Capt.  G.  Never  looked  prettier  in  your  life, 
dear.  {Aside.)  How  am  I  to  ask  her  to  say 
good-bye  ? 

Voice.  I  don't /f^/ pretty.  I  feel  very  ill.  My 
heart  won't  work.  It's  nearly  dead  inside  me, 
and  there's  a  funny  feeling  in  my  eyes.     Every- 


The  y alley  of  the  Shadow  127 

thing  seems  the  same  distance — you  and  the  al- 
mirah  and  the  table — inside  my  eyes  or  miles 
away.     What  does  it  mean,  Pip  ? 

Capt.  G.  You're  a  httle  feverish,  Sweetheart 
— very  feverish.  (Breakmg  down.)  My  love! 
my  love!     How  can  I  let  you  go  ? 

Voice.  I  thought  so.  Why  didn't  you  tell  me 
that  at  first  ? 

Capt.  G.     What? 

Voice.    That  I  am  going  to — die. 

Capt.  G.     But  you  aren't!     You  sha'n't. 

Ayah  to  punkah-coolie.  {Stepping  into  veranda 
after  a  glance  at  the  bed.)  Punkah  chor  do! 
(Stop  pulling  the  punkah.) 

Voice.  It's  hard,  Pip.  So  very,  very  hard  after 
one  year — just  one  year.  (IVailing.)  And  I'm 
only  twenty.  Most  girls  aren't  even  married  at 
twenty.  Can't  they  do  anything  to  help  me  ?  I 
don't  want  to  die. 

Capt.  G.     Hush,  dear.     You  won't. 

Voice.  What's  the  use  of  talking.^  Help  me! 
You've  never  failed  me  yet.  Oh,  Phil,  help  me 
to  keep  alive.  (Feverishly.)  I  don't  believe  you 
wish  me  to  live.  You  weren't  a  bit  sorry  when 
that  horrid  Baby  thing  died.     I  wish  I'd  killed  it! 

Capt.  G.  (Drawing  his  hand  across  his  fore- 
head.) It's  more  than  a  man's  meant  to  bear — it's 
not  right.  (Aloud.)  Minnie,  love,  I'd  die  for 
you  if  it  would  help. 


128  The  y alley  of  the  Shadow 

Voice.  No  more  death.  There's  enough  al- 
ready.    Pip,  doniyou  die  too. 

Capt.  G.     I  wish  I  dared. 

Voice.  It  says:  "Till  Death  do  us  part." 
Nothing  after  that — and  so  it  would  be  no  use. 
it  stops  at  the  dying.  [Vhy  does  it  stop  there  } 
Only  such  a  very  short  life,  too.  Pip,  I'm  sorry 
we  married. 

Capt.  G.     No!    Anything  but  that,  Min! 

Voice.  Because  you'll  forget  and  I'll  forget. 
Oh,  Pip,  don't  forget!  1  always  loved  you,  though 
I  was  cross  sometimes.  If  I  ever  did  anything 
that  you  didn't  like,  say  you  forgive  me  now. 

Capt.  G.  You  never  did,  darling.  On  my 
soul  and  honor  you  never  did.  I  haven't  a  thing 
to  forgive  you. 

Voice.  I  sulked  for  a  whole  week  about  those 
petunias.  {With  a  laugh.)  What  a  little  wretch 
I  was,  and  how  grieved  you  were!  Forgive  me 
that,  Pip. 

Capt.  G.  There's  nothing  to  forgive.  It  was 
my  fault.  They  were  too  near  the  drive.  For 
God's  sake  don't  talk  so,  Minnie!  There's  such 
a  lot  to  say  and  so  little  time  to  say  it  in. 

Voice.  Say  that  you'll  always  love  me — until 
the  end. 

Capt.  G.  Until  the  end.  {Carried  away.)  It's 
a  lie.  It  must  be,  because  we've  loved  each 
other.     This  isn't  the  end. 


The  y alley  of  the  Shadow  129 

Voice.  {Relapsing  into  semi-delirium.')  My 
Church-service  has  an  ivory-cross  on  the  back, 
and  /■/  says  so,  so  it  must  be  true.  "Till  Death 
do  us  part."— But  that's  a  lie.  {With  a  parody 
of  G.'s  manner.)  A  damned  lie!  {Recklessly.) 
Yes,  I  can  swear  as  well  as  Trooper  Pip.  I  can't 
make  my  head  think,  though.  That's  because 
they  cut  off  my  hair.  How  can  one  think  with 
one's  head  all  fuzzy  ?  {Pleadingly.)  Hold  me, 
Pip!  Keep  me  with  you  always  and  always. 
{Relapsing. )  But  if  you  marry  the  Thorniss  girl 
when  I'm  dead,  I'll  come  back  and  howl  under 
our  bedroom  window  all  night.  Oh,  bother! 
You'll  think  I'm  a  jackal.  Pip,  what  time  is 
it? 

Capt.  G.     a  little  before  the  dawn,  dean 

Voice.  I  wonder  where  I  shall  be  this  time  to- 
morrow } 

Capt.  G.     Would  you  like  to  see  the  Padre  } 

Voice.  Why  should  1 }  He'd  tell  me  that  I  am 
going  to  heaven;  and  that  wouldn't  be  true,  be- 
cause you  are  here.  Do  you  recollect  when  he 
upset  the  cream-ice  all  over  his  trousers  at  the 
Gassers'  tennis .? 

Capt.  G.     Yes,  dear. 

Voice.  I  often  wondered  whether  he  got  an- 
other pair  of  trousers;  but  then  his  are  so  shiny 
all  over  that  you  really  couldn't  tell  unless  you 
were  told.     Let's  call  him  in  and  ask. 


130  The  Valley  of  the  Shadow 

Capt.  G.  {Gravely.)  No.  I  don't  think  he'd 
like  that.     'Your  head  comfy,  Sweetheart  ? 

Voice.  {Faintly  with  a  sigh  of  contentment.) 
Yeth!  Gracious,  Pip,  when  rf/c/ you  shave  last  ? 
Your  chin's  worse  than  the  barrel  of  a  musical 
box. — No,  don't  lift  it  up.  I  like  it.  {A  pause.) 
You  said  you've  never  cried  at  all.  You're  crying 
all  over  my  cheek. 

Capt.  G.     I — 1 — I  can't  help  it,  dear. 

Voice.  How  funny!  1  couldn't  cry  now  to 
save  my  life.     (G.  shivers.)    I  want  to  sing. 

Capt.  G.  W^on't  it  tire  you  ?  'Better  not,  per- 
haps. 

Voice.  Why  ?  I  won't  be  bothered  about. 
(Begins  in  a  hoarse  quaver) : — 

"  Minnie  bakes  oaten  cake,  Minnie  brews  ale, 
All  because  her  Johnnie's  coming  home  from  the  sea. 
(That's  parade,  Pip.) 

And  she  grows  red  as  rose,  who  was  so  pale ; 
And  '  Are  you  sure  the  church-clock  goes  ?  '  says  she." 

{Pettishly.)  I  knew  I  couldn't  take  the  last 
note.  How  do  the  bass  chords  run  }  {Puts  out 
her  hands  and  begins  playing  piano  on  the  sheet.) 

Capt.  G.  {Catching  up  hands.)  Ahh!  Don't 
do  that.  Pussy,  if  you  love  me. 

Voice.  Love  you.^  Of  course  I  do.  Who 
else  should  it  be  ?    {A  pause.) 

Voice,  {Very  clearly.)  Pip,  I'm  going  now. 
Something's  choking  me  cruelly.     {Indistinctly.') 


The  Valley  of  the  Shadow  131 

Into  the  dark — without  you,  my  heart. — But  it's 
a  lie,  dear — we  mustn't  believe  it. — Forever  and 
ever,  living  or  dead.  Don't  let  me  go,  my  hus- 
band— hold  me  tight. — They  can't — whatever 
happens.  {A  cough.)  Pip — my  Pip!  Not  for 
always — and — so — soon !     (  Voice  ceases. ) 

Pause  often  minutes.     G.  buries  his  face  in 

the  side  of  the  bed  while  Ayah  bends  over 

bed  from  opposite  side  and  feels  Mrs.  G.'s 

breast  and  forehead. 

Capt.  G,     (Rising.)    Doctor  Sahib  ko  salaam 

do. 

Ayah.  {Still  by  bedside,  with  a  shriek.)  Ai! 
Ai!  Tuta—phuta!  MyMemsahibf  Not  getting 
— not  have  got! — Pusseena  agvaf  (The  sweat  has 
come.)  (Fiercely  to  G.)  Tum  jao  Doctor  Sahib 
ko  jaldil  {You  go  to  the  doctor.)  Oh,  my 
Memsahib  ! 

Doctor.  {Entering  hastily.)  Come  away, 
Gadsby.  {Bends  over  bed.)  Eh!  The  Dev — 
What  inspired  you  to  stop  the  punkah  ?  Get  out, 
man — go  away — wait  outside!  Go!  Here, 
Ayah!  {Over  his  shoulder  to  G.)  Mind  I  prom- 
ise nothing. 

The  dawn  breaks  as  G.  stumbles  into  the 
garden. 
Capt,  M.     {Reining  up  at  the  gate  on  his  way 
to  parade  and  very  soberly.)     Old  man,  how 
goes? 


132  The  Valley  of  the  Shadow 

Capt.  G.  {Daied.)  I  don't  quite  know. 
Stay  a  bit.  Have  a  drink  or  something.  Don't 
run  away.  You're  just  getting  amusing.  Ha! 
Ha! 

Capt.  M.  {Aside.)  What  am  \  let  in  for? 
Gaddy  has  aged  ten  years  in  the  night. 

Capt.  G.  {Slowly,  fingering  charger's  head- 
stall.)   Your  curb's  too  loose. 

Capt.  M.  So  it  is.  Put  it  straight,  will  you  ? 
{Aside.)  I  shall  be  late  for  parade.  Poor 
Gaddy. 

Capt.  G.  links  and  unlinks  airh-chain 
aimlessly,  and  finally  stands  staring  to- 
ward the  veranda.     The  day  brightens. 

Doctor.  {Knocked  out  ofprofessional gravity, 
tramping  across  fiower-beds  and  shaking  G's 
hands.)  It's — it's — it's! — Gadsby,  there's  a  fair 
chance — a  dashed  fair  chance!  The  flicker, 
y'know.  The  sweat,  y'know!  I  saw  how  it 
would  be.  The  punkah,  y'know.  Deuced 
clever  woman  that  Ayah  of  yours.  Stopped  the 
punkah  just  at  the  right  time.  A  dashed  good 
chance!  No — you  don't  go  in.  We'll  pull  her 
through  yet  I  promise  on  my  reputation — under 
Providence.  Send  a  man  with  this  note  to  Single. 
Two  heads  better  than  one.  'Specially  the  Ayah! 
We'll  pull  her  round.  {Retreats  hastily  to 
house.) 

Capt.  G.     {His  head  on  neck  o/M.'s  charger.^ 


The  Valley  of  the  Shadow  133 

Jack  !  I  bub — bub — believe,  I'm  going  to  make 
a  bub — bub — bloody  exhibitiod  of  byself. 

Capt.  M.  {Siiijfing  openly  and  feeling  in  his 
left  cviff.)  I  b-b — believe,  I'b  doing  it  already^ 
Old  bad,  what  cad  I  say  ?  I'b  as  pleased  as — 
Cod  dab  you,  Gaddy!  You're  one  big  idiot  and 
I'b  adother.  {Pulling  himself  together.)  Sit 
tight!     Here  comes  the  Devil-dodger. 

Junior  Chaplain.  {Who  is  not  in  the  Doctor's 
confidence.)  We — we  are  only  men  in  these 
things,  Gadsby.  I  know  that  I  can  say  nothing 
now  to  help  — 

Capt.  M.  {Jealously.)  Then  don't  say  it! 
Leave  him  alone.  It's  not  bad  enough  to  croak 
over.  Here,  Gaddy,  take  the  chit  to  Bingle  and 
ride  hell-for-leather.     It'll  do  you  good.     1  can't 

go. 

Junior  Chaplain.  Do  him  good!  {Smiling.) 
Give  me  the  chit  and  I'll  drive.  Let  him  lie 
down.     Your  horse  is  blocking  my  cart — please! 

Capt.  M.  {Slowly  without  reining  back.)  I 
beg  your  pardon — I'll  apologize.  On  paper  if 
you  like. 

Junior  Chaplain.  {Flicking  M.'s  charger.) 
That'll  do,  thanks.  Turn  in,  Gadsby,  and  I'll 
bring  Bingle  back — ahem — "  hell-for-leather." 

Capt.  M.  {Solus.)  It  would  have  served  me 
right  if  he'd  cut  me  across  the  face.  He  can 
drive  too.     I  shouldn't  care  to  go  that  pace  in  a 


134  The  l^allcy  of  the  Shadow 

bamboo  cart.  What  a  faith  he  must  have  in  his 
Maker — of  harness!  Come  hup,  you  brute! 
{Gallops  off  to  parade,  blowing  his  nose,  as  the 
sun  rises.) 

(interval  of  five  weeks.) 

Mrs.  G.  {yery  white  and  pinched,  in  morning 
wrapper  at  breakfast  table.)  \\o\m  big  and 
strange  the  room  looks,  and  oh  \\ov\i  glad  I  am  to 
see  it  again!  What  dust,  though!  I  must  talk 
to  the  servants.  Sugar,  Pip  ?  I've  almost  for- 
gotten.    (Seriously.')    Wasn't  I  very  ill? 

Capt.  G.  lUer than  Iliked.  {Tenderly.)  Oh, 
you  bad  little  Pussy,  what  a  start  you  gave  me  I 

Mrs.  G.     I'll  never  do  it  again. 

Capt.  G.  You'd  better  not.  And  now  get 
those  poor  pale  cheeks  pink  again,  or  I  shall  be 
angry.  Don't  try  to  lift  the  urn.  You'll  upset 
it.  Wait.  {Comes  round  to  head  of  table  and 
lifts  urn. ) 

Mrs.  G.  {Quickly.)  Khitmatgar,  bowarchi- 
khana  see  kettly  lao.  Butler,  get  a  kettle  from 
the  cook-house.  {Drawing  down  G.'s  face  to  her 
own.)     Pip  dear,  /  remember. 

Capt.  G.     What  ? 

Mrs.  G.     That  last  terrible  night. 

Capt.  G.     Then  just  you  forget  all  about  it. 

Mrs.  G.  {Softly,  her  eyes  filing.)  Never. 
It  has  brought  us  very  close  together,  my  hus- 


The  Valley  of  the  Shadow  i35 

band.  There!  (^Interlude.)  I'm  going  to  give 
Junda  a  saree. 

Capt.  G.     I  gave  her  fifty  dibs. 

Mrs.  G.  So  she  told  me.  It  was  a  'normous 
reward.  Was  I  worth  it  ?  {Severalinterludes.) 
Don't!  Here's  the  khitmatgar.—Two  lumps  or 
one,  Sir? 


THE  SWELLING  OF  JORDAN 


THE  SWELLING  OF  JORDAN 

If  thou  hast  run  with  the  footmen  and  they  have  wearied 
thee,  til  en  how  canst  thou  contend  with  horses  ?  And  if  in  the 
land  of  peace  wherein  thou  trustedst  they  wearied  thee,  then 
how  wilt  thou  do  in  the  swelling  of  Jordan  ? 

Scene. — The  Gadsbys'  bungalow  in  the  Plains,  on 
a  January  morning.  Mrs.  G.  arguing  with 
bearer  in  back  veranda. 

Capt.  M.  rides  up. 
Capt.  M.     'Mornin',  Mrs.  Gadsby.     How's  the 
Infant  Phenomenon  and  the  Proud  Proprietor  ? 

Mrs.  G.  You'll  find  them  in  the  front  veranda; 
go  through  the  house.     I'm  Martha  just  now. 

Capt.  M.  'Cumbered  about  with  cares  of  hhit- 
matgars  ?    I  fly. 

Passes  into  front  veranda,  where  Gadsby 
is   watching   Gadsby  Junior,   aged  ten 
months,  crawling  about  the  matting. 
Capt.  M.     What's  the  trouble,  Gaddy— spoil- 
ing an  honest  man's  Europe  morning  this  way  ? 
(Seeing   G.   Junior.)    By    Jove,   that    yearling's 
comin'  on  amazingly!    Any  amount  of  bone  be- 
low the  knee  there. 

Capt.  G.  Yes,  he's  a  healthy  little  scoundrel. 
Don't  you  think  his  hair's  growing  ? 

139 


140  The  Swelling  of  Jordan 

M.  Let's  have  a  look.  Hi!  Hst!  Come  here, 
General  Luck,  and  we'll  report  on  you. 

Mrs.  G.  {]Vil/i/ji.)  What  absurd  name  will 
you  give  him  next.?  Why  do  you  call  him 
that? 

M.  Isn't  he  our  Inspector-General  of  Cavalry  ? 
Doesn't  he  come  down  in  his  seventeen-two  per- 
ambulator every  morning  the  Pink  Hussars  pa- 
rade ?  Don't  wriggle,  Brigadier.  Give  us  your 
private  opinion  on  the  way  the  third  squadron 
went  past.     'Triile  ragged,  weren't  they? 

G.  A  bigger  set  of  tailors  than  the  new  draft 
I  don't  wish  to  see.  They've  given  me  more 
than  my  fair  share — knocking  the  squadron  out 
of  shape.     It's  sickening  1 

M.  When  you're  in  command,  you'll  do  bet- 
ter, young 'un.  Can't  you  walk  yet?  Grip  my 
finger  and  try.  ( 7o  G.)  'Twon't  hurt  his  hocks, 
will  it  ? 

G.  Oh,  no.  Don't  let  him  flop,  though,  or 
he'll  lick  all  the  blacking  off  your  boots. 

Mrs.  G.  {Within.)  Who's  destroying  my 
son's  character  ? 

M.  And  my  Godson's.  I'm  ashamed  of  you, 
Gaddy.  Punch  your  father  in  the  eye,  Jack! 
Don't  you  stand  it!     Hit  him  again! 

G.  {Sotto  voce.)  Put  The  Butch  a  down  and 
come  to  the  end  of  the  veranda.  I'd  rather  the 
Wife  didn't  hear — just  now. 


The  Swelling  of  Jordan  141 

M.  You  look  awf'Iy  serious.  Anything 
wrong  ? 

G.  'Depends  on  your  view  entirely.  I  say, 
Jack,  you  won't  think  more  hardly  of  me  than 
you  can  help,  will  you .?  Come  further  this  way. 
—The  fact  of  the  matter  is,  that  I've  made  up 
my  mind — at  least  I'm  thinking  seriously  of — cut- 
ting the  Service. 

M.     Hwhatt? 

G.  Don't  shout.  I'm  going  to  send  in  my 
papers. 

M.     You!    Are  you  mad  ? 

G.    No — only  married. 

M.  Look  here !  What's  the  meaning  of  it  all .? 
You  never  intend  to  leave  us.  You  can't.  Isn't 
the  best  squadron  of  the  best  regiment  of  the  best 
cavalry  in  all  the  world  good  enough  for  you  ? 

G.  {Jerking  his  head  over  his  shoulder.)  She 
doesn't  seem  to  thrive  in  this  God-forsaken  coun- 
try, and  there's  The  Biitcha  to  be  considered  and 
all  that,  you  know. 

M.     Does  she  say  that  she  doesn't  like  India  ? 

G.  That's  the  worst  of  it.  She  won't  for  fear 
of  leaving  me. 

M.     What  are  the  Hills  made  for  ? 

G.     Not  for  my  wife,  at  any  rate. 

M.  You  know  too  much,  Gaddy,  and — I  don't 
like  you  any  the  better  for  it! 

G.    Never  mind  that.     She  wants    England, 


142  The  Swelling  of  Jordan 

and  The  Btitcha  would  be  all  the  better  for  it. 
I'm  going  to  chuck.     You  don't  understand. 

M.  {Hotly.)  I  understand  this.  One  hun- 
dred and  thirty-seven  new  horses  to  be  licked 
into  shape  somehow  before  Luck  comes  round 
again;  a  hairy-heeled  draft  who'll  give  more 
trouble  than  the  horses;  a  camp  next  cold  weather 
for  a  certainty;  ourselves  the  first  on  the  roster; 
the  Russian  shindy  ready  to  come  to  a  head  at 
five  minutes'  notice,  and  you,  the. best  of  us  all, 
backing  out  of  it  all!  Think  a  little,  Gaddy. 
You  won't  do  it. 

G.  Hang  it,  a  man  has  some  duties  toward 
his  family,  I  suppose. 

M.  I  remember  a  man,  though,  who  told  me, 
the  night  after  Amdheran,  when  we  were  pick- 
eted under  Jagai,  and  he'd  left  his  sword — by  the 
way,  did  you  ever  pay  Ranken  for  that  sword  ? 
— in  an  Utmanzai's  head — that  man  told  me  that 
he'd  stick  by  me  and  the  Pinks  as  long  as  he 
lived.  I  don't  blame  him  for  not  sticking  by  me 
— I'm  not  much  of  a  man — but  I  do  blame  him 
for  not  sticking  by  the  Pink  Hussars. 

G.  {Uneasily.)  We  were  little  more  than 
boys  then.  Can't  you  see,  Jack,  how  things 
stand }  'Tisn't  as  if  we  were  serving  for  our 
bread.  We've  all  of  us,  more  or  less,  got  the 
filthy  lucre.  I'm  luckier  than  some,  perhaps. 
There's  no  call  for  me  to  serve  on. 


The  Swelling  of  Jordan  I4_3 

M.  None  in  the  world  for  you  or  for  us,  ex- 
cept the  Regimental.  If  you  don't  choose  to  an- 
swer to  that,  of  course  — 

G.  Don't  be  too  hard  on  a  man.  You  know 
that  a  lot  of  us  only  take  up  the  thing  for  a  few 
years  and  then  go  back  to  Town  and  catch  on 
with  the  rest. 

M.     Not  lots,  and  they  aren't  some  of  Us. 

G.  And  then  there  are  one's  affairs  at  Home 
to  be  considered — my  place  and  the  rents,  and  all 
that.  I  don't  suppose,  my  father  can  last  much 
longer,  and  that  means  the  title,  and  so  on. 

M.  'Fraid  you  won't  be  entered  in  the  Stud 
Book  correctly  unless  you  go  Home  ?  Take  six 
months,  then,  and  come  out  in  October.  If  I 
could  slay  otT  a  brother  or  two,  1  s'pose  1  should 
be  a  Marquis  of  sorts.  Any  fool  can  be  that; 
but  it  needs  men,  Gaddy — men  like  you — to  lead 
flanking  squadrons  properly.  Don't  you  delude 
yourself  into  the  belief  that  you're  going  Home 
to  take  your  place  and  prance  about  among 
pink-nosed  Kabuli  dowagers.  You  aren't  built 
that  way.     I  know  better. 

G.  A  man  has  a  right  to  live  his  life  as  happily 
as  he  can.     You  aren't  married. 

M.  No — praise  be  to  Providence  and  the  one 
or  two  women  who  have  had  the  good  sense  to 
jaivab  me. 

G.    Then  you  don't  know  what  it  is  to  go  into 


144  T^^  Swelling  of  Jordan 

your  own  room  and  see  your  wife's  head  on  the 
pillow,  and  when  everything  else  is  safe  and  the 
house  shut  up  for  the  night,  to  wonder  whether 
the  roof-beams  won't  give  and  kill  her. 

M.  {Aside.)  Revelations  first  and  second! 
{Aloud.)  So-o!  I  knew  a  man  who  got  squiffy 
at  our  Mess  once  and  confided  to  me  that  he 
never  helped  his  wife  on  to  her  horse  without 
praying  that  she'd  break  her  neck  before  she 
came  back.     All  husbands  aren't  alike,  you  see. 

G.  What  on  earth  has  that  to  do  with  my 
case  }  The  man  must  ha'  been  mad,  or  his  wife 
as  bad  as  they  make  'em, 

M.  {Aside.)  'No  fault  of  yours  if  either 
weren't  all  you  say.  You've  forgotten  the  time 
when  you  were  insane  about  the  Herriott  woman. 
You  always  were  a  good  hand  at  forgetting. 
{Aloud.)  Not  more  mad  than  men  who  go  to 
the  other  extreme.  Be  reasonable,  Gaddy.  Your 
roof-beams  are  sound  enough. 

G.  That  was  only  a  way  of  speaking.  I've 
been  uneasy  and  worried  about  the  Wife  ever 
since  that  awful  business  three  years  ago — when 
— I  nearly  lost  her.     Can  you  wonder  ? 

M.  Oh,  a  shell  never  falls  twice  in  the  same 
place.  You've  paid  your  toll  to  misfortune — 
why  should  your  Wife  be  picked  out  more  than 
anybody  else's  ? 

G.     1  can  talk  just  as  reasonably  as  you  can. 


The  Swelling  of  Jordan  145 

but  you  don't  understand — you  don't  understand. 
And  'hen  there's  The  Butcha.  Deuce  knows 
where  the  Ayah  takes  him  to  sit  in  the  evening! 
He  has  a  bit  of  a  cough.  Haven't  you  noticed 
it? 

M.  Bosh !  The  Brigadier's  jumping  out  of  his 
skin  with  pure  condition.  He's  got  a  muzzle 
like  a  rose-leaf  and  the  chest  of  a  two-year-old. 
What's  demoralized  you  ? 

G.  Funk.  That's  the  long  and  the  short  of  it. 
Funk! 

M.     But  what  is  there  to  funk  ? 

G.     Everything.     It's  ghastly. 

M.    Ah !    I  see. 

You  don't  want  to  fight, 

And  by  Jingo  when  we  do, 
You've  got  the  kid,  you've  got  the  Wife, 

You've  got  the  money,  too. 

That's  about  the  case,  eh  ? 

G.  1  suppose  that's  it.  But  it's  not  for  my- 
self.    It's  because  of  them.    At  least  I  think  it  is. 

M,  Are  you  sure  ?  Looking  at  the  matter  in 
a  cold-blooded  light,  the  Wife  is  provided  for 
even  if  you  were  wiped  out  to-night.  She  has 
an  ancestral  home  to  go  to,  money,  and  the  Brig- 
adier to  carry  on  the  illustrious  name. 

G.  Then  it  is  for  myself  or  because  they  are 
part  of  me.     You  don't   see  it.     My  life's  so 


1^6  The  Swelling  of  Jordan 

good,  so  pleasant,  as  it  is,  tiiat  I  want  to  make  it 
quite  safe.     Can't  you  understand  ? 

M.  Perfectly.  "  Siielter-pit  for  the  Orf'cer's 
charger,"  as  they  say  in  the  Line. 

G.  And  1  have  everything  to  my  hand  to 
make  it  so.  I'm  sick  of  the  strain  and  the  worry 
for  their  sakes  out  here;  and  there  isn't  a  single 
real  difficulty  to  prevent  my  dropping  it  alto- 
gether. It'll  only  cost  me — Jack,  I  hope  you'll 
never  know  the  shame  that  I've  been  going 
through  for  the  past  six  months. 

M.  Hold  on  there!  I  don't  wish  to  be  told. 
Every  man  has  his  moods  and  tenses  sometimes. 

G.  (^Laughing  bitterly.)  Has  he  ?  What  do 
you  call  craning  over  to  see  where  your  near-fore 
lands  } 

M.  In  my  case  it  means  that  I  have  been  on 
the  Considerable  Bend,  and  have  come  to  parade 
with  a  Head  and  a  Hand.  It  passes  in  three 
strides. 

G.  {Lowering  voice.')  It  never  passes  with 
me,  Jack.  I'm  always  thinking  about  it.  Phil 
Gadsby  funking  a  fall  on  parade!  Sweet  picture, 
isn't  it!    Draw  it  for  me. 

M.  {Gravely.)  Heaven  forbid!  A  man  like 
you  can't  be  as  bad  as  that.  A  fall  is  no  nice 
thing,  but  one  never  gives  it  a  thought. 

G.  Doesn't  one  ?  Wait  till  you've  got  a  wife 
and  a  youngster  of  your  own,  and  then  you'll 


The  Swelling  of  Jordan  147 

know  how  the  roar  of  the  squadron  behind  you 
turns  you  cold  all  up  the  back. 

M.  {Aside.)  And  this  man  led  at  Amdheran 
after  Bagal-Deasin  went  under,  and  we  were  all 
mixed  up  together,  and  he  came  out  of  the  show 
dripping  like  a  butcher.  {Aloud.)  Skittles! 
The  men  can  always  open  out,  and  you  can 
always  pick  your  way  more  or  less.  We  haven't 
the  dust  to  bother  us,  as  the  men  have,  and  who- 
ever heard  of  a  horse  stepping  on  a  man  ? 

G.  Never — as  long  as  he  can  see.  But  did 
they  open  out  for  poor  Errington  ? 

M.     Oh,  this  is  childish! 

G.  I  know  it  is,  worse  than  that.  I  don't 
care.  You've  ridden  Van  Loo.  Is  he  the  sort  of 
brute  to  pick  his  way — 'specially  when  we're 
coming  up  in  column  of  troop  with  any  pace  on  ? 

M.  Once  in  a  Blue  Moon  do  we  gallop  in 
column  of  troop,  and  then  only  to  save  time. 
Aren't  three  lengths  enough  for  you  } 

G.  Yes — quite  enough.  They  just  allow  for 
the  full  development  of  the  smash.  I'm  talking 
like  a  cur,  I  know:  but  1  tell  you  that,  for  the 
past  three  months,  I've  felt  every  hoof  of  the 
squadron  in  the  small  of  my  back  every  time  that 
I've  led. 

M.     But,  Gaddy,  this  is  awful! 

G.  Isn't  it  lovely  }  Isn't  it  royal  ?  A  Captain 
of  the  Fink  Hussars  watering  up  his  charger  be- 


148  The  Sijoellinfr  of  Jordan 

fore  parade  like  the  blasted  boozing  Colonel  of  a 
Black  Regiment! 

M.     You  never  did! 

G.  Once  only.  He  squelched  like  a  mussuck, 
and  the  Troop-Sergeant-Major  cocked  his  eye  at 
me.  You  know  old  Haffy's  eye.  I  was  afraid 
to  do  it  again. 

M.  1  should  think  so.  That  was  the  best  way 
to  rupture  old  Van  Loo's  tummy,  and  make  him 
crumple  you  up.     You  knew  that. 

G.     1  didn't  care.     It  took  the  edge  off  him. 

M.  "Took  the  edge  off  him"?  Gaddy,  you — 
you — you  mustn't,  you  know !    Think  of  the  men. 

G.  That's  another  thing  I  am  afraid  of.  D'you 
s'pose  they  know  } 

M.  Let's  hope  not;  but  they're  deadly  quick 
to  spot  skrim — little  things  of  that  kind.  See 
here,  old  man,  send  the  Wife  Home  for  the  hot 
weather  and  come  to  Kashmir  with  me.  We'll 
start  a  boat  on  the  Dal  or  cross  the  Rhotang— 
shoot  ibex  or  loaf — which  you  please.  Only 
come!  You're  a  bit  off  your  oats  and  you're 
talking  nonsense.  Look  at  the  Colonel — swag- 
bellied  rascal  that  he  is.  He  has  a  wife  and  no 
end  of  a  bow-window  of  his  own.  Can  any  one 
of  us  ride  round  him — chalkstones  and  all  ?  1 
can't,  and  I  think  1  can  shove  a  crock  along  a  bit. 

G.  Some  men  are  different.  I  haven't  the 
nerve.     Lord  help  me,  I  haven't  the  nerve!    I've 


The  Swelling  of  Jordan  149 

taken  up  a  hole  and  a  half  to  get  my  knees  well 
under  the  wallets.  I  can't  help  it.  I'm  so  afraid 
of  anything  happening  to  me.  On  my  soul,  I 
ought  to  be  broke  in  front  of  the  squadron,  for 
cowardice. 

M.  Ugly  word,  that.  I  should  never  have  the 
courage  to  own  up. 

G.  I  meant  to  lie  about  my  reasons  when  I 
began,  but — I've  got  out  of  the  habit  of  lying  to 
you,  old  man.  Jack,  you  won't } — But  I  know 
you  won't. 

M.  Of  course  not.  {Half  aloud.)  The  Pinks 
are  paying  dearly  for  their  Pride. 

G.     Eh!    Wha-at.? 

M.  Don't  you  know  ?  The  men  have  called 
Mrs.  Gadsby  the  Pride  of  the  Pink  Hussars  ever 
since  she  came  to  us. 

G.  Tisn't  herisiXiW..  Don't  think  that.  It's 
all  mine. 

M.     What  does  she  say  ? 

G.  I  haven't  exactly  put  it  before  her.  She's 
the  best  little  woman  in  the  world,  Jack,  and  all 
that — but  she  wouldn't  counsel  a  man  to  stick  to 
his  calling  if  it  came  between  him  and  her.  At 
least,  I  think  — 

M.  Never  mind.  Don't  tell  her  what  you  told 
me.    Go  on  the  Peerage  and  Landed-Gentry  tack. 

G.  She'd  see  through  it.  She's  five  times 
cleverer  than  I  am. 


1 30  The  Swelling  of  Jordan 

M.  (^Aside.)  Then  she'll  accept  the  sacrifice 
and  think  a  little  bit  worse  of  him  for  the  rest  of 
her  days. 

G.     (^Absently.)    1  say,  do  you  despise  me  ? 

M.  "Queer  way  of  putting  it.  Have  you  ever 
been  asked  that  question .?  Think  a  minute.  What 
answer  used  you  to  give.^ 

G.  So  bad  as  that?  I'm  not  entitled  to  ex- 
pect anything  more,  but  it's  a  bit  hard  when  one's 
best  friend  turns  round  and  — 

M.  So  /  have  found.  But  you  will  have  con- 
solations— Bailiffs  and  Drains  and  Liquid  Manure 
and  the  Primrose  League,  and,  perhaps,  if  you're 
lucky,  the  Colonelcy  of  a  Yeomanry  Cav-al-ry 
Regiment — all  uniform  and  no  riding,  I  believe. 
How  old  are  you  } 

G.     Thirty-three.     I  know  it's  — 

M.  At  forty  you'll  be  a  fool  of  a  J.P.  landlord. 
At  fifty  you'll  own  a  bath-chair,  and  The  Briga- 
dier, if  he  takes  after  you,  will  be  fluttering 
the  dovecotes  of — what's  the  particular  dunghill 
you're  going  to  ?    Also,  Mrs.  Gadsby  will  be  fat. 

G.  {Limply.)  This  is  rather  more  than  a 
joke. 

M.  D'you  think  so  ?  Isn't  cutting  the  Service 
a  joke  ?  It  generally  takes  a  man  fifty  years  to 
arrive  at  it.  You're  quite  right,  though.  It  is 
more  than  a  jx)ke.  You've  managed  it  in  thirty- 
three. 


The  Swelling  of  Jordan  1 51 

G.  Don't  make  me  feel  worse  than  I  do.  Will 
it  satisfy  you  if  I  own  that  I  am  a  shirker,  a 
skrim-shanker,  and  a  coward  ? 

M.  It  will  not,  because  I'm  the  only  man  in 
the  world  who  can  talk  to  you  like  this  without 
beina:  knocked  down.  You  mustn't  take  all  that 
I've  said  to  heart  in  this  way.  I  only  spoke— a 
lot  of  it  at  least— out  of  pure  selfishness,  because, 
because—  Oh,  damn  it  all,  old  man,— I  don't 
know  what  1  shall  do  without  you.  Of  course, 
you've  got  the  money  and  the  place  and  all  that 
— and  there  are  two  very  good  reasons  why  you 
should  take  care  of  yourself. 

G.  'Doesn't  make  it  any  the  sweeter.  I'm 
backing  out — 1  know  I  am.  I  always  had  a  soft 
drop  in  me  somewhere — and  I  daren't  risk  any 
danger  to  them. 

M.  Why  in  the  world  should  you .?  You're 
bound  to  think  of  your  family — bound  to  think. 
Er-hmm.  If  1  wasn't  a  younger  son  I'd  go  too — 
be  shot  if  I  wouldn't! 

G.    Thank  you,  Jack.    It's  a  kind  lie,  but  it's 

the  blackest  you've  told  for  some  time.     1  know 

what  I'm  doing,  and  I'm  going  into  it  with  my 

eyes  open.     Old   man,  I   can't   help  it.     Whal 

'would  you  do  if  you  were  in  my  place  ? 

M.  {Aside.)  'Couldn't  conceive  any  woman 
getting  permanently  between  me  and  the  Regi- 
ment.     {Aloud.)      'Can't  say.      'Very  likely   I 


1 52  The  Swelling  of  Jordan 

should  do  no  better.  I'm  sorry  for  you — awf  ly 
sorry — but  "  if  them's  your  sentiments,"  I  believe, 
I  really  do,  that  you  are  acting  wisely. 

G.  Do  you  ?  I  hope  you  do.  {In  a  whisper.') 
Jack,  be  very  sure  of  yourself  before  you  marry. 
I'm  an  ungrateful  ruffian  to  say  this,  but  mar- 
riage— even  as  good  a  marriage  as  mine  has  been 
— hampers  a  man's  work,  it  cripples  his  sword- 
arm,  and  oh,  it  plays  Hell  with  his  notions  of 
duty!  Sometimes — good  and  sweet  as  she  is — 
sometimes  I  could  v/ish  that  1  had  kept  my  free- 
dom—    No,  I  don't  mean  that  exactly. 

Mrs.  G.  {Coming  down  veranda.)  What  are 
you  wagging  your  head  over,  Pip  ? 

M.  {Turning  quickly.)  Me,  as  usual.  The 
old  sermon.  Your  husband  is  recommending  me 
to  get  married.  'Never  saw  such  a  one-ideaed 
man! 

Mrs.  G.  Well,  why  don't  you  ?  I  dare  say 
you  would  make  some  woman  very  happy. 

G.  There's  the  Law  and  the  Prophets,  Jack. 
Never  mind  the  Regiment.  Make  a  woman 
happy.     {Aside.)    O  Lord! 

M.  We'll  see.  1  must  be  off  to  make  a  Troop 
Cook  desperately  unhappy.  I  won't  have  the 
wily  Hussar  fed  on  Government  Bullock  Train 
shinbones — [Hastily.)  Surely  black  ants  can't  be 
good  for  The  Brigadier.  He's  picking  'em  off 
the  matting  and  eating  'em.     Here,  Senor  Com- 


The  Swelltng  of  Jordan  1^3 

andante  Don  Grubbynose,  come  and  talk  to  me. 
{Lifts  G.  Junior  in  his  arms.)  'Want  my  watch  ? 
You  won't  be  able  to  put  it  into  your  mouth,  but 
you  can  try.  (G.  Junior  drops  watch,  breaking 
dial  and  hands.) 

Mrs.  G.  Oh,  Captain  Mafflin,  I  am  so  sorry! 
Jack,  you  bad,  bad  little  villain.     Ahhh! 

M.     It's  not  the  least  consequence,  I  assure 

you.     He'd  treat  the  world  in  the  same  way  if  he 

could  get  it  into  his  hands.     Everything's  made 

to  be  played  with  and  broken,  isn't  it,  young  'un? 

****** 

Mrs.  G.  Mafflin  didn't  at  all  like  his  watch 
being  broken,  though  he  was  too  polite  to  say 
so.  It  was  entirely  his  fault  for  giving  it  to  the 
child.  Dem  little  puds  are  werry,  werry  feeble, 
aren't  dey,  my  Jack-in-de-box  ?  {To  G.)  What 
did  he  want  to  see  you  for  ? 

G.     Regimental  shop  as  usual. 

Mrs.  G.  The  Regiment!  Always  the  Regi- 
ment. On  my  word,  I  sometimes  feel  jealous  of 
Mafflin. 

G.  (IVearily.)  Poor  old  Jack  ?  I  don't  think 
you  need.  Isn't  it  time  for  The  Butcha  to  have 
his  nap  ?  Bring  a  chair  out  here,  dear.  I've  got 
something  to  talk  over  with  you. 

And  this  is  the  End  of  the  Story  of  the 
Gadsbys. 


IN  BLACK  AND  WHITE 


THE  DEDICATION 

TO  MY  MOFT  DEARE  Father, — When  I  was  in 
your  Houfe  and  we  went  abroade  together, 
in  the  outfkirtes  of  the  Citie,  among  the  Gentoo 
Wreftlours,  you  had  poynted  me  how  in  all 
Empryzes  he  gooing  forth  flang  backe  alwaies  a 
Word  to  hym  that  had  infruct  hym  in  his  Crafte 
to  the  better  Sneckynge  of  a  Victorie  or  at  the 
leafte  the  auoidance  of  anie  greate  Defeate:  And 
prefentlie  each  man  wolde  run  to  his  yftad 
(which  is  as  we  shoulde  fay  Mafter)  and  geat 
fuch  as  he  deferued  of  Admonefhment,  Reprouf 
and  Council,  concernynge  the  Gripp,  the  Houlde, 
Crofsbuttock  and  Fall,  and  then  lay  to  afrefhe. 

In  lyke  maner  I,  drawynge  back  a  lytel,  from 
this  my  Rabble  and  Encompafment  of  Labor, 
have  runn  afyde  to  you  who  were  euer  my  y/tad 
and  Speake  as  it  were  in  your  priuie  Fare  [yet 
that  others  may  knowe]  that  if  1  have  here  done 
aught  of  Faire  Crafte  and  Reverentiall  it  is  come 
from  your  hande  as  trewly  [but  by  i.  Degree  re- 
mouen]  as  though  it  had  been  the  coperture  of 
thys  Booke  that  you  haue  made  for  me  in  loue. 
How  may  I  here  tell  of  that  Tender  Diligence 
which  in  my  wauerynge  and  inconftante  viages 
was  in  all  tymes  about  me  to  showe  the  pafsions 

5 


6  The    Dedication 

and  Occafions,  Shifts,  Humors,  and  Sports  that 
in  due  proporcion  comhinate  haue  bred  that  Rare 
and  Terrible  Myftery  the  which,  for  lacke  of  a 
more  compleat  Venderftandinge,  the  Worlde  has 
cauled  Man:  aswel  the  maner  in  which  you 
shoulde  goo  about  to  pourtraie  the  same,  a  lytel 
at  a  tyme  in  Feare  and  Decencie.  By  what  hand, 
when  I  wolde  have  dabbled  a  Greene  and  unvefed 
Pen  in  all  Earthe  Heauen  and  Hell,  bicaufe  of  the 
pitiful  Confidence  of  Youthe,  was  I  bounde  in 
and  reftrict  to  wayte  tyl  I  coulde  in  fome  fort 
difcerne  from  the  Shadowe,  that  is  not  by  any 
peynes  to  be  toucht,  the  small  Kernel  and  Sub- 
ftance  that  mighte  conforme  to  the  sclendernefs 
of  my  Capacilie.  All  thys  and  other  Council 
(that,  though  1  dyd  then  not  followe,  Tyme  hath 
since  fadlie  prouen  trewe)  is  my  unpayable  Debt 
to  you  (moft  deare  Father)  and  for  marke  I  have 
set  afyde  for  you,  if  you  will  take  it,  thys  my 
thirde  Booke.  The  more  thys  and  no  other  fenfe 
it  is  of  common  knowledge  that  Men  do  rather 
efteem  a  Pebble  gathered  under  the  Burnynge 
Lyne  (or  anie  place  that  they  haue  gone  farr  to 
travel  in)  then  the  Paue-way  of  theyr  owne  Citie, 
though  that  may  be  the  better  wrought.  Your 
Charitie  and  the  large  Tendernefs  that  1  haue  no- 
where founde  fenfe  I  haue  gone  from  your 
Houfe  shall  look  upon  it  fauorably  and  ouerpafs 
the  Blemyfhes,  Spottes,  Foul  Crafte,  and  Macula- 


The  Dedicaiion  7 

tions  that  do  as  thoroughly  marke  it  as  anie  Toil 
of  Me.  None  the  lefs  it  is  fett  prefomptuoufly 
before  that  Wilde  Beafte  the  Publick  which, 
though  when  aparte  and  one  by  one  examined  is 
but  compoft  of  such  meere  Men  and  Women  as 
you  in  theyr  outwarde  form  peynt  and  I  would 
fayne  peynt  in  theyr  inward  workynges,  yet  in 
totalitie,  is  a  Great  and  thanklefse  God  (like  unto 
Dagon)  upon  whofe  Altars  a  man  muft  offer  of 
his  Befte  alone  of  the  Prieftes  (which  they  caul 
Reuiewers)  pack  him  emptie  awai.  If  I  faile  in 
thys  Seruyce  you  shall  take  me  afyde  and  giue 
me  more  Inftruction,  which  is  but  the  olde  Coun- 
fel  unreguarded  and  agayne  made  playne:  As 
our  Vftads  take  hym  whofe  Nofe  is  rubben  in  the 
dyrte  and  speak  in  hys  Eare.  But  thys  I  knowe, 
that  if  I  fail  or  if  1  geat  my  Wage  from  the  God 
aforefayd;  and  thus  dance  perpetually  before 
that  Altar  till  He  be  wearyed,  the  Wifdom  that 
made  in  my  Vfe,  when  I  was  neere  to  liften,  and 
the  Sweep  and  Swing  temperate  of  the  Pen  that, 
when  I  was  afarr,  gaue  me  alwaies  and  untyryng 
the  most  delectable  Tillage  of  that  Wifdom  shall 
neuer  be  lackynge  to  me  in  Lyfe. 

And  though  I  am  more  rich  herein  than  the 
richeft,  my  prefent  Pouertie  can  but  make  return 
in  thys  lytel  Booke  which  your  owne  Toil  has 
nobilitated  beyon  the  deferuynge  of  the  Writer 
your  Son. 


CONTENTS 

PAGS 

Introduction ii 

Dray  Wara  Yow  Dee 15 

The  Judgment  of  Dungara    .        .        .        '33 

At  Howli  Thana 49 

Gemini 59 

At  Twenty-Two     .         .         .        .        ,        .77 

In  Flood  Time 97 

The  Sending  OF  Dana  Da       .        ,        .         .115 
On  the  City  Wall 133 


INTRODUCTION 

BY  KADIR  BAKSH,  KHITMATGAR 

HAZUR, — Through  your  favor  this  is  a  book 
written  by  my  saliib.  I  know  that  he  wrote 
it,  because  it  was  his  custom  to  write  far  into  the 
night;  I  greatly  desiring  to  go  to  my  house.  But 
there  was  no  order;  therefore  it  was  my  fate  to  sit 
without  the  door  until  the  work  was  accomplished. 
Then  came  I  and  made  shut  all  the  papers  in  the 
office-box,  and  these  papers,  by  the  peculiar  opera- 
tion of  Time  and  owing  to  the  skilful  manner  in. 
which  I  picked  them  up  from  the  floor,  became 
such  a  book  as  you  now  see.  God  alone  knows 
what  is  written  therein,  for  I  am  a  poor  man  and 
the  sahib  is  my  father  and  my  mother,  and  1  have 
no  concern  with  his  writings  until  he  has  left  his 
table  and  gone  to  bed. 

Nabi  Baksh,  clerk,  says  that  it  is  a  book  about 
the  black  men — common  people.  This  is  a 
manifest  lie,  for  by  what  road  can  my  sahib  have 
acquired  knowledge  of  common  people  ?  Have 
I  not,  for  several  years,  been  perpetually  with 
the  sahib;  and  throughout  that  time  have  I  not 
stood  between  him  and  the  other  servants  who 
would  persecute  him  with  complaints  or  vex  him 

u 


12  Introduction 


with  idle  tales  about  my  work  ?  Did  I  not  smite 
Dunnoo,  the  groom,  only  yesterday  in  the  matter 
of  the  badness  of  the  harness-composition  which 
I  had  procured  ?  I  am  the  head  of  the  sahib's 
household  and  hold  his  purse.  Without  me  he 
does  not  know  where  are  his  rupees  or  his  clean 
collars.  So  great  is  my  power  over  the  sahib  and 
the  love  that  he  bears  to  me!  Have  I  ever  told 
the  sahib  about  the  customs  of  servants  or  black 
men?  Am  I  a  fool?  I  have  said  "very  good 
talk"  upon  all  occasions.  I  have  always  cut 
smooth  his  wristbands  with  scissors,  and  timely 
warned  him  of  the  passing  away  of  his  tobacco 
that  he  might  not  be  left  smokeless  upon  a  Sun- 
day. More  than  this  I  have  not  done.  The 
sahib  cannot  go  out  to  dinner  lacking  my  aid. 
How  then  should  he  know  aught  that  I  did  not 
tell  him  ?    Certainly  Nabi  Baksh  is  a  liar. 

None  the  less  this  is  a  book,  and  the  sahib 
wrote  it,  for  his  name  is  in  it,  and  it  is  not  his 
washing-book.  Now,  such  is  the  wisdom  of  the 
sahib-log,  that,  upon  opening  this  thing,  they 
will  instantly  discover  the  purport.  Yet  1  would 
of  their  favor  beg  them  to  observe  how  correct  is 
the  order  of  the  pages,  which  I  have  counted, 
from  the  first  to  the  last.  Thus,  One  is  followed 
by  Two  and  Two  by  Three,  and  so  forward  to 
the  end  of  the  book.  Even  as  I  picked  the  pages 
one  by  one  with  great  trouble  from  the  floor, 


introduction  i^ 

when  the  sahib  had  gone  to  bed,  so  have  they 
been  placed;  and  there  is  not  a  fault  in  the  whole 
account.  And  this  is  my  work.  It  was  a  great 
burden,  but  I  accomplished  it;  and  if  the  sahib 
gains  honor  by  that  which  he  has  written — and 
God  knows  what  he  is  always  writing  about — I, 
Kadir  Bal^sh,  his  servant,  also  have  a  claim  to 
honor. 


DRAY  WARA  YOW  DEE 


DRAY  WARA  YOW  DEE 

For  jealousy  is  the  rage  of  a  man :  therefore   he   will   not 
spare  in  the  day  of  vengeance. — Prov.  vi.  34, 

ALMONDS  and  raisins,  Sahib?  Grapes  from 
Kabul  ?  Or  a  pony  of  the  rarest  if  the 
Sahib  will  only  come  with  me.  He  is  thirteen 
three,  Sahib,  plays  polo,  goes  in  a  cart,  carries  a 
lady  and — Holy  Kurshed  and  the  Blessed  Imams, 
it  is  the  Sahib  himself!  My  heart  is  made  fat  and 
my  eye  glad.  May  you  never  be  tired!  As  is 
cold  water  in  the  Tirah,  so  is  the  sight  of  a  friend 
in  a  far  place.  And  what  diO  you  in  this  accursed 
land  ?  South  of  Delhi,  Sahib,  you  know  the  say- 
ing— "Rats  are  the  men  and  trulls  the  women." 
It  was  an  order?  Ahoo!  An  order  is  an  order 
till  one  is  strong  enough  to  disobey.  O  my 
brother,  O  my  friend,  we  have  met  in  an  auspi- 
cious hour!  Is  all  well  in  the  heart  and  the  body 
and  the  house?  In  a  lucky  day  have  we  two 
come  together  again. 

I  am  to  go  with  you?  Your  favor  is  great. 
Will  there  be  picket-room  in  the  compound?  I 
have  three  horses  and  the  bundles  and  the  horse- 
boy. Moreover,  remember  that  the  police  here 
hold  me  a  horse-thief.     What  do  these  Lowland 

17 


i8  Dray  War  a  Yow  Dee 

bastards  know  of  horse-thieves?  Do  you  re- 
member that  time  in  Peshawur  when  Kamal 
hammered  on  the  gates  of  Jumrud — mountebank 
that  he  was — and  lifted  the  Colonel's  horses  all  in 
one  night?  Kamal  is  dead  now,  but  his  nephew 
has  taken  up  the  matter,  and  there  will  be  more 
horses  amissing  if  the  Khaiber  Levies  do  not  look 
to  it. 

The  Peace  of  God  and  the  favor  of  His  Prophet 
be  upon  this  house  and  all  that  is  in  it!  Shafizul- 
lah,  rope  the  mottled  mare  under  the  tree  and 
draw  water.  The  horses  can  stand  in  the  sun, 
but  double  the  felts  over  the  loins.  Nay,  my 
friend,  do  not  trouble  to  look  them  over.  They 
are  to  sell  to  the  Officer  fools  who  know  so  many 
things  of  the  horse.  The  mare  is  heavy  in  foal; 
the  grey  is  a  devil  unlicked;  and  the  dun — but 
you  know  the  trick  of  the  peg.  When  they  are 
sold  I  go  back  to  Pubbi,  or,  it  may  be,  the  Valley 
of  Peshawur. 

O  friend  of  my  heart,  it  is  good  to  see  you 
again.  I  have  been  bowing  and  lying  all  day  to 
the  Officer-Sahibs  in  respect  to  those  horses;  and 
my  mouth  is  dry  for  straight  talk,  Auggrh! 
Before  a  meal  tobacco  is  good.  Do  not  join  me, 
for  we  are  not  in  our  own  country.  Sit  in  the 
veranda  and  I  will  spread  my  cloth  here.  But 
first  I  will  drink.  In  the  name  of  God  returning 
thanks,  thrice!    This  is  sweet  water,  indeed — 


Dray  War  a  Yow  Dee  19 

sweet  as  the  water  of  Sheoran  when  it  comes 
from  the  snows. 

They  are  all  well  and  pleased  in  the  North — 
Khoda  Baksh  and  the  others.  Yar  Khan  has 
come  down  with  the  horses  from  Kurdistan — six 
and  thirty  head  only,  and.  a  full  half  pack-ponies 
— and  has  said  openly  in  the  Kashmir  Serai  that 
you  English  should  send  guns  and  blow  the  Amir 
into  Hell.  There  are  fifteen  tolls  now  on  the 
Kabul  road;  and  at  Dakka,  when  he  thought  he 
was  clear,  Yar  Khan  was  stripped  of  all  his  Balkh 
stallions  by  the  Governor!  This  is  a  great  injus- 
tice, and  Yar  Khan  is  hot  with  rage.  And  of  the 
others:  Mahbub  Ali  is  still  at  Pubbi,  writing  God 
knows  what.  Tugluq  Khan  is  in  jail  for  the 
business  of  the  Kohat  Police  Post.  Faiz  Beg 
came  down  from  Ismail-ki-Dhera  with  a  Bok- 
hariot  belt  for  thee,  my  brother,  at  the  closing  of 
the  year,  but  none  knew  whither  thou  hadst 
gone:  there  was  no  news  left  behind.  The 
Cousins  have  taken  a  new  run  near  Pakpattan  to 
breed  mules  for  the  Government  carts,  and  there 
is  a  story  in  Bazar  of  a  priest.  Oho!  Such  a  salt 
tale !     Listen  — 

Sahib,  why  do  you  ask  that  ?  My  clothes  are 
fouled  because  of  the  dust  on  the  road.  My  eyes 
are  sad  because  of  the  glare  of  the  sun.  My  feet 
are  swollen  because  I  have  washed  them  in  bitter 
water,  and   my  cheeks  are  hollow  because  the 


20 


Dray  Wara  Yow  Dee 


food  here  is  bad.  Fire  burn  your  money!  What 
do  I  want  with  it?  I  am  rich  and  I  thought'you 
were  my  friend;  but  you  are  like  the  others— a 
Sahib.  Is  a  man  sad  ?  Give  him  money,  say  the 
Sahibs.  Is  he  dishonored  ?  Give  him  money, 
say  the  Sahibs.  Hath  he  a  wrong  upon  his 
head  ?  Give  him  money,  say  the  Sahibs.  Such 
are  the  Sahibs,  and  such  art  thou— even  thou. 

Nay,  do  not  look  at  the  feet  of  the  dun.  Pity 
it  is  that  I  ever  taught  you  to  know  the  legs  of  a 
horse.  Footsore?  Be  it  so.  What  of  that? 
The  roads  are  hard.  And  the  mare  footsore? 
She  bears  a  double  burden,  Sahib. 

And  now  I  pray  you,  give  me  permission  to 
depart.  Great  favor  and  honor  has  the  Sahib 
done  me,  and  graciously  has  he  shown  his  belief 
that  the  horses  are  stolen.  Will  it  please  him  to 
send  me  to  the  Thana  ?  To  call  a  sweeper  and 
have  me  led  away  by  one  of  these  lizard-men  ? 
I  am  the  Sahib's  friend.  I  have  drunk  water  in 
the  shadow  of  his  house,  and  he  has  blackened 
my  face.  Remains  there  anything  more  to  do  ? 
Will  the  Sahib  give  me  eight  annas  to  make 
smooth  the  injury  and— complete  the  insult  ?  — 

Forgive  me,  my  brother.  I  knew  not— I  know 
not  now— what  I  say.  Yes,  I  lied  to  you!  I 
will  put  dust  on  my  head — and  I  am  an  Afridi! 
The  horses  have  been  marched  footsore  from  the 
Valley  to  this  place,  and  my  eyes  are  dim,  and 


Dray  War  a  Yow  Dee  21 

my  body  aches  for  the  want  of  sleep,  and  my 
heart  is  dried  up  with  sorrow  and  shame.  But 
as  it  was  my  shame,  so  by  God  the  Dispenser  of 
•Justice — by  Allah-al-Mumit — it  shall  be  my  own 
revenge ! 

We  have  spoken  together  with  naked  hearts 
before  this,  and  our  hands  have  dipped  into  the 
same  dish  and  thou  hast  been  to  me  as  a  brother. 
Therefore  1  pay  thee  back  with  lies  and  ingrati- 
tude— as  a  Pathan.  Listen  now!  When  the 
grief  of  the  soul  is  too  heavy  for  endurance  it 
may  be  a  little  eased  by  speech,  and,  moreover, 
the  mind  of  a  true  man  is  as  a  well,  and  the  peb- 
ble of  confession  dropped  therein  sinks  and  is 
no  more  seen.  From  the  Valley  have  I  come  on 
foot,  league  by  league,  with  a  fire  in  my  chest 
like  the  fire  of  the  Pit.  And  why  ?  Hast  thou, 
then,  so  quickly  forgotten  our  customs,  among 
this  folk  who  sell  their  wives  and  their  daughters 
for  silver?  Come  back  with  me  to  the  North 
and  be  among  men  once  more.  Come  back, 
when  this  matter  is  accomplished  and  I  call  for 
thee!  The  bloom  of  the  peach-orchards  is  upon 
all  the  Valley,  and  here  is  only  dust  and  a  great 
stink.  There  is  a  pleasant  wind  among  the  mul- 
berry trees,  and  the  streams  are  bright  with 
snow-water,  and  the  caravans  go  up  and  the 
caravans  go  down,  and  a  hundred  fires  sparkle  in 
the  gut  of  the  Pass,  and  tent-peg  answers  ham- 


22  Dray  Wara  Yow  Dee 

mer-nose,  and  pack-horse  squeals  to  pack-horse 
across  the  drift  smoke  of  the  evening.  It  is  good 
in  the  North  now.  Come  back  with  me.  Let  us 
return  to  our  own  people!    Come! 

4e  lie  4c  4c  4c  ^ 

Whence  is  my  sorrow  ?  Does  a  man  tear  out 
his  heart  and  make  fritters  thereof  over  a  slow 
fire  for  aught  other  than  a  woman }  Do  not 
laugh,  friend  of  mine,  for  your  time  will  also  be., 
A  woman  of  the  Abazai  was  she,  and  I  took  her 
to  wife  to  staunch  the  feud  between  our  village 
and  the  men  of  Ghor.  I  am  no  longer  young  ? 
The  hme  has  touched  my  beard  }  True.  I  had 
no  need  of  the  wedding  ?  Nay,  but  1  loved  her. 
What  saith  Rahman:  "Into  whose  heart  Love 
enters,  there  is  Folly  and  naught  else.  By  a 
glance  of  the  eye  she  hath  blinded  thee;  and  by 
the  eyelids  and  the  fringe  of  the  eyelids  taken  thee 
into  the  captivity  without  ransom,  and  naught 
else."  Dost  thou  remember  that  song  at  the 
sheep-roasting  in  the  F^indi  camp  among  the 
Uzbegs  of  the  Amir  } 

The  Abazai  are  dogs  and  their  women  the 
servants  of  sin.  There  was  a  lover  of  her  own 
people,  but  of  that  her  father  told  me  naught. 
My  friend,  curse  for  me  in  your  prayers,  as  I 
curse  at  each  praying  from  the  Fakr  to  the  Isha, 
the  name  of  Daoud  Shah,  Abazai,  whose  head  is 


Dray  Wara  Yow  Dee  23 

still  upon  his  neck,  whose  hands  are  still  upon 
his  wrists,  who  has  done  me  dishonor,  who  has 
made  my  name  a  laughing-stock  among  the 
women  of  Little  Malikand. 

I  went  into  Hindustan  at  the  end  of  two 
months — to  Cherat.  I  was  gone  twelve  days 
only;  but  1  had  said  that  I  would  be  fifteen  days 
absent.  This  I  did  to  try  her,  for  it  is  written : 
"Trust  not  the  incapable."  Coming  up  the 
gorge  alone  in  the  falling  of  the  light,  I  heard  the 
voice  of  a  man  singing  at  the  door  of  my  house; 
and  it  was  the  voice  of  Daoud  Shah,  and  the 
song  that  he  sang  was  "Dray  wara  yow  dee'' — 
"All  three  are  one."  It  was  as  though  a  heel- 
rope  had  been  slipped  round  my  heart  and  all 
the  Devils  were  drawing  it  tight  past  endurance. 
I  crept  silently  up  the  hill-road,  but  the  fuse  of 
my  matchlock  was  wetted  with  the  rain,  and  I 
could  not  slay  Daoud  Shah  from  afar.  Moreover, 
it  was  in  my  mind  to  kill  the  woman  also.  Thus 
he  sang,  sitting  outside  my  house,  and,  anon, 
the  woman  opened  the  door,  and  I  came  nearer, 
crawling  on  my  belly  among  the  rocks.  I  had 
only  my  knife  to  my  hand.  But  a  stone  slipped 
under  my  foot,  and  the  two  looked  down  the 
hillside,  and  he,  leaving  his  matchlock,  fled  from 
my  anger,  because  he  was  afraid  for  the  life  that 
was  in  him.  But  the  woman  moved  not  till  I 
stood  in  front  of  her,  crying:  "O  woman,  what 


24  Dray  War  a  Yow  Dee 

is  this  that  thou  hast  done?"  And  she,  void  of 
fear,  though  she  knew  my  thought,  laughed,  say- 
ing: "It  is  a  little  thing.  1  loved  him,  and  tJwu 
art  a  dog  and  cattle-thief  coming  by  night. 
Strike!"  And  I,  being  still  blinded  by  her 
beauty,  for,  O  my  friend,  the  women  of  the 
Abazai  are  very  fair,  said:  "  Hast  thou  no  fear  ?  " 
And  she  answered:  "None — but  only  the  fear 
that  I  do  not  die."  Then  said  i:  "Have  no 
fear."  And  she  bowed  her  head,  and  1  smote  it 
off  at  the  neck-bone  so  that  it  leaped  between  my 
feet.  Thereafter  the  rage  of  our  people  came 
upon  me,  and  I  hacked  off  the*  breasts,  that  the 
men  of  Little  Malikand  might  know  the  crime, 
and  cast  the  body  into  the  water-course  that 
flows  to  the  Kabul  river.  Dray  wara yow  dee ! 
Dray  wara  yow  dee!  The  body  without  the 
head,  the  soul  without  light,  and  my  own  dark- 
ling heart — all  three  are  one — all  three  are  one! 

That  night,  making  no  halt,  I  went  to  Ghor 
and  demanded  news  of  Daoud  Shah.  Men  said: 
"  He  is  gone  to  Pubbi  for  horses.  What  wouldst 
thou  of  him "?  There  is  peace  between  the  vil- 
lages." I  made  answer:  "Aye!  The  peace  of 
treachery  and  the  love  that  the  Devil  Atala  bore  to 
Gurel. "  So  1  fired  thrice  into  the  gate  and  laughed 
and  went  my  way. 

In  those  hours,  brother  and  friend  of  my  heart's 
heart,  the  moon  and  the  stars  were  as  blood  above 


Dray  Wara  Yow  Dee  25 

me,  and  in  my  mouth  was  the  taste  of  dry  earth. 
Also,  I  broke  no  bread,  and  my  drink  was  the 
rain  of  the  Valley  of  Ghor  upon  my  face. 

At  Pubbi  I  found  Mahbub  Ali,  the  writer,  sit- 
ting upon  his  charpoy  and  gave  up  my  arms 
according  to  your  Law.  But  I  was  not  grieved, 
for  it  was  in  my  heart  that  I  should  kill  Daoud 
Shah  with  my  bare  hands  thus — as  a  man  strips  a 
bunch  of  raisins.  Mahbub  Ali  said:  "Daoud 
Shah  has  even  now  gone  hot-foot  to  Peshawur, 
and  he  will  pick  up  his  horses  upon  the  road  to 
Delhi,  for  it  is  said  that  the  Bombay  Tramway 
Company  are  buying  horses  there  by  the  truck- 
load  ;  eight  horses  to  the  truck."  And  that  was  a 
true  saying. 

Then  I  saw  that  the  hunting  would  be  no 
little  thing,  for  the  man  was  gone  into  your 
borders  to  save  himself  against  my  wrath.  And 
shall  he  save  himself  so  ?  Am  I  not  alive  ? 
Though  he  run  northward  to  the  Dora  and  the 
snow,  or  southerly  to  the  Black  Water,  I  will 
follow  him,  as  a  lover  follows  the  footsteps  of 
his  mistress,  and  coming  upon  him  I  will  take 
him  tenderly — Aho!  so  tenderly! — in  my  arms, 
saying:  "Well  hast  thou  done  and  well  shalt 
thou  be  repaid."  And  out  of  that  embrace 
Daoud  Shah  shall  not  go  forth  with  the  breath  in 
his  nostrils,  Anggrh  !  Where  is  the  pitcher .?  I 
am  as  thirsty  as  a  mother-mare  in  the  first  month. 


26  Dray  War  a  Yow  Dee 

Your  Law!  What  is  your  Law  to  me  ?  When 
the  horses  fight  on  the  runs  do  they  regard  the 
boundary  pillars;  or  do  the  kites  of  Ali  Musjid 
forbear  because  the  carrion  lies  under  the  shadow 
of  the  Ghor  Kuttri  ?  The  matter  began  across 
the  Border.  It  shall  finish  where  God  pleases. 
Here,  in  my  own  country,  or  in  Hell.  All  three 
are  one. 

Listen  now,  sharer  of  the  sorrow  of  my  heart, 
and  I  will  tell  of  the  hunting.  I  followed  to 
Peshawur  from  Pubbi,  and  I  went  to  and  fro 
about  the  streets  of  Peshawur  like  a  houseless 
dog,  seeking  for  my  enemy.  Once  I  thought 
that  I  saw  him  washing  his  mouth  in  the  conduit 
in  the  big  square,  but  when  I  came  up  he  was 
gone.  It  may  be  that  it  was  he,  and,  seeing  my 
face,  he  had  fled. 

A  girl  of  the  bazar  said  that  he  would  go  to 
Nowshera.  I  said:  "  O  heart's  heart,  does  Daoud 
Shah  visit  thee?"  And  she  said:  "Even  so."  I 
said:  "  I  would  fain  see  him,  for  we  be  friends 
parted  for  two  years.  Hide  me,  I  pray,  here  in 
the  shadow  of  the  window  shutter,  and  I  will 
wait  for  his  coming."  And  the  girl  said:  "O 
Pathan,  look  into  my  eyes!"  And  I  turned, 
leaning  upon  her  breast,  and  looked  into  her 
eyes,  swearing  that  I  spoke  the  very  Truth  of 
God.  But  she  answered:  "Never  friend  waited 
friend  with    such   eyes.     Lie  to  God  and  the 


Dray  Wara  Yow  Dee  27 

Prophet,  but  to  a  woman  ye  cannot  lie.  Get 
hence!  There  shall  no  harm  befall  Daoud  Shah 
by  cause  of  me." 

1  would  have  strangled  that  girl  but  for  the  fear 
of  your  Police;  and  thus  the  hunting  would  have 
come  to  naught.  Therefore  I  only  laughed  and 
departed,  and  she  leaned  over  the  window-bar  in 
the*  night  and  mocked  me  down  the  street.  Her 
name  is  Jamun.  When  1  have  made  my  account 
with  the  man  I  will  return  to  Peshawur  and — her 
lovers  shall  desire  her  no  more  for  her  beauty's 
sake.  She  shall  not  be  Jamun  but  Ak,  the 
cripple  among  trees.  Ho!  Ho!  Ah  shall  she 
be! 

At  Peshawur  I  bought  the  horses  and  grapes, 
and  the  almonds  and  dried  fruits,  that  the  reason 
of  my  wanderings  might  be  open  to  the  Govern- 
ment, and  that  there  might  be  no  hindrance  upon 
the  road.  But  when  I  came  to  Nowshera  he  was 
gone,  and  1  knew  not  where  to  go.  I  stayed  one 
day  at  Nowshera,  and  in  the  night  a  Voice  spoke 
in  my  ears  as  I  slept  among  the  horses.  All 
night  it  flew  round  my  head  and  would  not  cease 
from  whispering.  I  was  upon  my  belly,  sleep- 
ing as  the  Devils  sleep,  and  it  may  have  been  that 
the  Voice  was  the  voice  of  a  Devil.  It  said: 
"Go  south,  and  thou  shalt  come  upon  Daoud 
Shah."  Listen,  my  brother  and  chiefest  among 
friends — listen!    Is  the  tale  a 'ong  one  ?    Think 


28  Dray  Wara  Yow  Dee 

how  it  was  long  to  me.  I  have  trodden  every 
league  of  the  road  from  Pubbi  to  this  place;  and 
from  Nowshera  my  guide  was  only  the  Voice 
and  the  lust  of  vengeance. 

To  the  Uttock  I  went,  but  that  was  no  hin- 
drance to  me.  Ho!  Ho!  A  man  may  turn  the 
word  twice,  even  in  his  trouble.  The  Uttock 
was  no  ttttock  (obstacle)  to  me ;  and  1  heard  the 
Voice  above  the  noise  of  the  waters  beating  on 
the  big  rock,  saying:  "Go  to  the  right."  So  I 
went  to  Pindigheb,  and  in  those  days  my  sleep 
was  taken  from  me  utterly,  and  the  head  of  the 
woman  of  the  Abazai  was  before  me  night  and 
day,  even  as  it  had  fallen  between  my  feet. 
Dray  wara  yow  dee!  Dray  wara  yow  dee! 
Fire,  ashes,  and  my  couch,  all  three  are  one — all 
three  are  one! 

Now  I  was  far  from  the  winter  path  of  the 
dealers  who  had  gone  to  Sialkot  and  so  south  by 
the  rail  and  the  Big  Road  to  the  line  of  canton- 
ments; but  there  was  a  Sahib  in  camp  at  Pindig- 
heb who  bought  from  me  a  white  mare  at  a  good 
price,  and  told  me  that  one  Daoud  Shah  had 
passed  to  Shahpur  with  horses.  Then  1  saw  that 
the  warning  of  the  Voice  was  true,  and  made 
swift  to  come  to  the  Salt  Hills.  The  Jhelum  was 
in  flood,  but  I  could  not  wait,  and,  in  the  cross- 
ing, a  bay  stallion  was  washed  down  and 
drowned.     Herein  was  Gou  hard  to  me — not  in 


Dray  IVara  Yow  Dee  29 

respect  of  the  beast,  of  that  I  had  no  care — ^but 
in  this  snatching.  While  I  was  upon  the  right 
bank  urging  the  horses  into  the  water,  Daoud 
Shah  was  upon  the  left;  for — Alghias!  Alghias! 
— the  hoofs  of  my  mare  scattered  the  hot  ashes 
of  his  fires  when  we  came  up  the  hither  bank  in 
the  Hght  of  morning.  But  he  had  fled.  His  feet 
were  made  swift  by  the  terror  of  Death.  And  1 
went  south  from  Shahpur  as  the  kite  flies.  I 
dared  not  turn  aside,  lest  1  should  miss  my  venge- 
ance—  which  is  my  right.  From  Shahpur  I 
skirted  by  the  Jhelum,  for  I  thought  that  he 
would  avoid  the  Desert  of  the  Rechna.  But, 
presently,  at  Sahiwal,  I  turned  away  upon  the 
road  to  Jhang,  Samundri,  and  Gugera,  till,  upon 
a  night,  the  mottled  mare  breasted  the  fence  of 
the  rail  that  runs  to  Montgomery.  And  that 
place  was  Okara,  and  the  head  of  the  woman  of 
the  Abazai  lay  upon  the  sand  between  my  feet. 

Thence  I  went  to  Fazi^ka,  and  they  said  that  I 
was  mad  to  bring  starved  horses  there.  The 
Voice  was  with  me,  and  1  was  not  mad,  but  only 
wearied,  because  I  could  not  find  Daoud  Shah. 
It  was  written  that  I  should  not  find  him  at 
Rania  nor  Bahadurgarh,  and  I  came  into  Delhi 
from  the  west,  and  there  also  I  found  him  not. 
My  friend,  I  have  seen  many  strange  things  in 
my  wanderings.  I  have  seen  Devils  rioting 
across  the  Rechna  as  the  stallions  riot  in  spring. 


30  Dray  War  a  Yow  Dee 

1  have  heard  the  Djinns  calling  to  each  other 
from  holes  in  the  sand,  and  1  have  seen  them 
pass  before  my  face.  There  are  no  Devils,  say 
the  Sahibs  ?  They  are  very  wise,  but  they  do 
not  know  all  things  about  devils  or — horses. 
Ho!  Ho!  I  say  to  you  who  are  laughing  at  my 
misery,  that  I  have  seen  the  Devils  at  high  noon 
whooping  and  leaping  on  the  shoals  of  the 
Chenab.  And  was  I  afraid  ?  My  brother,  when 
the  desire  of  a  man  is  set  upon  one  thing  alone, 
he  fears  neither  God  nor  Man  nor  Devil.  If  my 
vengeance  failed,  I  would  splinter  the  Gates  of 
Paradise  with  the  butt  of  my  gun,  or  I  would  cut 
my  way  into  Hell  with  my  knife,  and  I  would 
call  upon  Those  who  Govern  there  for  the  body 
of  Daoud  Shah.     What  love  so  deep  as  hate  ? 

Do  not  speak.  I  know  the  thought  in  your 
heart,  is  the  white  of  this  eye  clouded  ?  How 
does  the  blood  beat  at  the  wrist  ?  There  is  no 
madness  in  my  flesh,  but  only  the  vehemence  of 
the  desire  that  has  eaten  me  up.     Listen! 

South  of  Delhi  I  knew  not  the  country  at  all. 
Therefore  I  cannot  say  where  I  went,  but  I 
passed  through  many  cities.  I  knew  only  that  it 
was  laid  upon  me  to  go  south.  When  the  horses 
could  march  no  more,  I  threw  myself  upon  the 
earth,  and  waited  till  the  day.  There  was  no 
sleep  with  me  in  that  journeying;  and  that  was  a 
heavy  burden.     Dost    thou    know,   brother    of 


Dray  War  a  Yow  Dee  ^i 

mine,  the  evil  of  wakefulness  that  cannot  break 
— when  the  bones  are  sore  for  lack  of  sleep,  and 
the  skin  of  the  temples  twitches  with  weariness, 
and  yet — there  is  no  sleep — there  is  no  sleep  ? 
Dray  war  a  yow  dee  !  Dray  war  a  yow  dee  !  The 
eye  of  the  Sun,  the  eye  of  the  Moon,  and  my 
own  unrestful  eyes — all  three  are  one — all  three 
are  one! 

There  was  a  city  the  name  whereof  1  have  for- 
gotten, and  there  the  Voice  called  all  night. 
That  was  ten  days  ago.  It  has  cheated  me 
afresh. 

I  have  come  hither  from  a  place  called  Hamir- 
pur,  and,  behold,  it  is  my  Fate  that  1  should  meet 
with  thee  to  my  comfort,  and  the  increase  of 
friendship.  This  is  a  good  omen.  By  the  joy 
of  looking  upon  thy  face  the  weariness  has  gone 
from  my  feet,  and  the  sorrow  of  my  so  long 
travel  is  forgotten.  Also  my  heart  is  peaceful; 
for  I  know  that  the  end  is  near. 

It  may  be  that  I  shall  find  Daoud  Shah  in  this 
city  going  northward,  since  a  Hillman  will  ever 
head  back  to  his  Hills  when  the  spring  warns. 
And  shall  he  see  those  hills  of  our  country  ? 
Surely  I  shall  overtake  him !  Surely  my  venge- 
ance is  safe!  Surely  God  hath  him  in  the  hol- 
low of  His  hand  against  my  claiming.  There 
shall  no  harm  befall  Daoud  Shah  till  I  come;  for 
I  would  fain  kill  him  quick  and  whole  with  the 


^2  Dray  IVara  Yow  Dee 

life  sticking  firm  in  his  body.  A  pomegranate  is 
sweetest  when  the  cloves  break  away  unwilling 
from  the  rind.  Let  it  be  in  the  daytime,  that  I 
may  see  his  face,  and  my  delight  may  be 
crowned. 

And  when  I  have  accomplished  the  matter  and 
my  Honor  is  made  clean,  I  shall  return  thanks 
unto  God,  the  Holder  of  the  Scale  of  the  Law, 
and  1  shall  sleep.  From  the  night,  through  the 
day,  and  into  the  night  again  I  shall  sleep;  and 
no  dream  shall  trouble  me. 

And  now,  O  my  brother,  the  tale  is  all  toldr 
Ahif  Ahi!  Alghias!  AM! 


THE  JUDGMENT  OF  DUNGARA 


THE  JUDGMENT  OF  DUNGARA 

See  the  pale  martyr  with  his  shirt  on  fire Printer's  Error. 

THEY  tell  the  tale  even  now  among  the  groves 
of  the  Berbulda  Hill,  and  for  corroboration 
point  to  the  roofless  and  windowless  Mission- 
house.  The  great  God  Dungara,  the  God  of 
Things  as  They  Are,  Most  Terrible,  One-eyed, 
Bearing  the  Red  Elephant  Tusk,  did  it  all;  and 
he  who  refuses  to  believe  in  Dungara  will  as- 
suredly be  smitten  by  the  Madness  of  Yat — the 
madness  that  fell  upon  the  sons  and  the  daugh- 
ters of  the  Buria  Kol  when  they  turned  aside 
from  Dungara  and  put  on  clothes.  So  says 
Athon  Daze,  who  is  High  Priest  of  the  shrine 
and  Warden  of  the  Red  Elephant  Tusk.  But  if 
you  ask  the  Assistant  Collector  and  Agent  in 
Charge  of  the  Buria  Kol,  he  will  laugh— not  be- 
cause he  bears  any  malice  against  missions,  but 
because  he  himself  saw  the  vengeance  of  Dun- 
gara executed  upon  the  spiritual  children  of  the 
Reverend  Justus  Krenk,  Pastor  of  the  Tubingen 
Mission,  and  upon  Lotta,  his  virtuous  wife. 

Yet  if  ever  a  man  merited  good  treatment  of 
the  Gods  it  was  the  Reverend  Justus,  one  time 

35 


^  The  Judgment  of  Dungara 

of  Heidelberg,  who,  on  the  faith  of  a  call,  went 
into  the  wilderness  and  took  the  blonde,  blue-eyed 
Lotta  with  him.  "We  will  these  Heathen  now 
by  idolatrous  practices  so  darkened  better  make," 
said  Justus  in  the  early  days  of  his  career.  "  Yes," 
he  added  with  conviction,  "they  shall  be  good 
and  shall  with  their  hands  to  work  learn.  For 
all  good  Christians  must  work."  And  upon  a 
stipend  more  modest  even  than  that  of  an  Eng- 
lish lay-reader,  Justus  Krenk  kept  house  beyond 
Kamala  and  the  gorge  of  Malair,  beyond  the  Ber- 
bulda  River  close  to  the  foot  of  the  blue  hill  of 
Panth  on  whose  summit  stands  the  Temple  of 
Dungara — in  the  heart  of  the  country  of  the  Buria 
Kol — the  naked,  good-tempered,  timid,  shame- 
less, lazy  Buria  Kol. 

Do  you  know  what  life  at  a  Mission  outpost 
means?  Try  to  imagine  a  loneliness  exceeding 
that  of  the  smallest  station  to  which  Government 
has  ever  sent  you — isolation  that  weighs  upon  the 
waking  eyelids  and  drives  you  by  force  headlong 
into  the  labors  of  the  day.  There  is  no  post, 
there  is  no  one  of  your  own  color  to  speak  to, 
there  are  no  roads:  there  is,  indeed,  food  to  keep 
you  alive,  but  it  is  not  pleasant  to  eat;  and  what- 
ever of  good  or  beauty  or  interest  there  is  in  your 
life,  must  come  from  yourself  and  the  grace  that 
may  be  planted  in  you. 

In  the  morning;  with  a  patter  of  soft  feet,  the 


The  Judgment  of  Dungara  37 

converts,  the  doubtful,  and  the  open  scoffers, 
troop  up  to  the  veranda.  You  must  be  infinitely 
kind  and  patient,  and,  above  all,  clear-sighted, 
for  you  deal  with  the  simplicity  of  childhood,  the 
experience  of  man,  and  the  subtlety  of  the  sav- 
age. Your  congregation  have  a  hundred  material 
wants  to  be  considered;  and  it  is  for  you,  as  you 
believe  in  your  personal  responsibility  to  your 
Maker,  to  pick  out  of  the  clamoring  crowd  any 
grain  of  spirituality  that  may  lie  therein.  If  to 
the  cure  of  souls  you  add  that  of  bodies,  your 
task  will  be  all  the  more  difficult,  for  the  sick  and 
the  maimed  will  profess  any  and  every  creed  for 
the  sake  of  healing,  and  will  laugh  at  you  because 
you  are  simple  enough  to  believe  them. 

As  the  day  wears  and  the  impetus  of  the 
morning  dies  away,  there  will  come  upon  you 
an  overwhelming  sense  of  the  uselessness  of 
your  toil.  This  must  be  striven  against,  and  the 
only  spur  in  your  side  will  be  the  belief  that  you 
are  playing  against  the  Devil  for  the  living  soul. 
It  is  a  great,  a  joyous  belief;  but  he  who  can  hold 
it  unwavering  for  four  and  twenty  consecutive 
hours,  must  be  blessed  with  an  abundantly  strong 
physique  and  equable  nerve. 

Ask  the  grey  heads  of  the  Bannockburn  Med- 
ical Crusade  what  manner  of  life  their  preachers 
lead;  speak  to  the  Racine  Gospel  Agency,  those 
lean    Americans  whose  boast  is  that  they  go 


38  The  Judgment  of  Dungara 

where  no  Englishman  dare  follow;  get  a  Pastor 
of  the  Tubingen  Mission  to  talk  of  his  experiences 
— if  you  can.  You  will  be  referred  to  the  printed 
reports,  but  these  contain  no  mention  of  the  men 
who  have  lost  youth  and  health,  all  that  a  man 
may  lose  except  faith,  in  the  wilds;  of  English 
maidens  who  have  gone  forth  and  died  in  the 
fever-stricken  jungle  of  the  Panth  Hills,  knowing 
from  the  first  that  death  was  almost  a  certainty. 
Few  Pastors  will  tell  you  of  these  things  any  more 
than  they  will  speak  of  that  young  David  of  St. 
Bees,  who,  set  apart  for  the  Lord's  work,  broke 
down  in  the  utter  desolation,  and  returned  half 
distraught  to  the  Head  Mission,  crying:  "There 
is  no  God,  but  I  have  walked  with  the  Devil!" 

The  reports  are  silent  here,  because  heroism, 
failure,  doubt,  despair,  and  self-abnegation  on 
the  part  of  a  mere  cultured  white  man  are  things 
of  no  weight  as  compared  to  the  saving  of  one 
half-human  soul  from  a  fantastic  faith  in  wood- 
spirits,  goblins  of  the  rock,  and  river-fiends. 

And  Gallio,  the  Assistant  Collector  of  the  coun- 
try side,  "cared  for  none  of  these  things."  He 
had  been  long  in  the  district,  and  the  Buria  Kol 
loved  him  and  brought  him  offerings  of  speared 
fish,  orchids  from  the  dim  moist  heart  of  the  for- 
ests, and  as  much  game  as  he  could  eat.  In  re- 
turn he  gave  them  quinine,  and  with  Athon  Daze, 
the  High  Priest,  controlled  their  simple  policies. 


The  Judgment  of  Dimgara  39 

"  When  you  have  been  some  years  in  the 
country,"  said  Gallio  at  the  Krenks'  table,  "you 
grow  to  find  one  creed  as  good  as  another.  I'll 
give  you  all  the  assistance  in  my  power,  of 
course,  but  don't  hurt  my  Buria  Kol.  They  are 
a  good  people  and  they  trust  me." 

"I  will  them  the  Word  of  the  Lord  teach," 
said  Justus,  his  round  face  beaming  with  enthu- 
siasm, "and  I  will  assuredly  to  their  prejudices  no 
wrong  hastily  without  thinking  make.  But,  O 
my  friend,  this  in  the  mind  impartiality-of-creed- 
judgment-be-looking  is  very  bad," 

"  Heigh-ho!  "  said  Gallio,  "  I  have  their  bodies 
and  the  district  to  see  to,  but  you  can  try  what 
you  can  do  for  their  souls.  Only  don't  behave 
as  your  predecessor  did,  or  I'm  afraid  that  I  can't 
guarantee  your  life." 

"And  that?"  said  Lotta,  sturdily,  handing  him 
a  cup  of  tea. 

"He  went  up  to  the  Temple  of  Dungara — to 
be  sure  he  was  new  to  the  country — and  began 
hammering  old  Dungara  over  the  head  with  an 
umbrella;  so  the  Buria  Kol  turned  out  and  ham- 
mered him  rather  savagely.  I  was  in  the  district, 
and  he  sent  a  runner  to  me  with  a  note  saying: 
'  Persecuted  for  the  Lord's  sake.  Send  wing  of 
regiment.'  The  nearest  troops  were  about  two 
hundred  miles  off,  but  I  guessed  what  he  had 
been  doing.     I  rode  to  Panth  and  talked  to  old 


40  The  Judgment  of  Dungara 

Athon  Daze  like  a  father,  telling  him  that  a  man 
of  his  wisdom  ought  to  have  known  that  the 
Sahib  had  sunstroke  and  was  mad.  You  never 
saw  a  people  more  sorry  in  your  life.  Athon 
Daze  apologized,  sent  wood  and  milk  and  fowls 
and  all  sorts  of  things;  and  1  gave  five  rupees  to 
the  shrine  and  told  Macnamara  that  he  had  been 
injudicious.  He  said  that  I  had  bowed  down  in 
the  House  of  Rimmon;  but  if  he  had  only  just 
gone  over  the  brow  of  the  hill  and  insulted  Palin 
Deo,  the  idol  of  the  Suria  Kol,  he  would  have 
been  impaled  on  a  charred  bamboo  long  before  I 
could  have  done  anything,  and  then  1  should 
have  had  to  have  hanged  some  of  the  poor  brutes. 
Be  gentle  with  them,  Padri — but  I  don't  think 
you'll  do  much." 

"Not  1,"  said  Justus,  "but  my  Master.  We 
will  with  the  little  children  begin.  Many  of  them 
will  be  sick — that  is  so.  After  the  children  the 
mothers;  and  then  the  men.  But  I  would  greatly 
that  you  were  in  internal  sympathies  with  us 
prefer." 

Gallio  departed  to  risk  his  life  in  mending  the 
rotten  bamboo  bridges  of  his  people,  in  killing  a 
too  persistent  tiger  here  or  there,  in  sleeping  out 
in  the  reeking  jungle,  or  in  tracking  the  Suria 
Kol  raiders  who  had  taken  a  few  heads  from 
their  brethren  of  the  Buria  clan.  He  was  a 
knock-kneed,  shambling  young  man,  naturally 


The  Judgment  of  Dungara  41 

devoid  of  creed  or  reverence,  with  a  longing  for 
absolute  power  which  his  undesirable  district 
gratified. 

"No  one  wants  my  post,"  he  used  to  say, 
grimly,  "and  my  Collector  only  pokes  his  nose 
in  when  he's  quite  certain  that  there  is  no  fever. 
I'm  monarch  of  all  I  survey,  and  Athon  Daze  is 
my  viceroy." 

Because  Gallio  prided  himself  on  his  supreme 
disregard  of  human  life — though  he  never  ex- 
tended the  theory  beyond  his  own — he  naturally 
rode  forty  miles  to  the  Mission  with  a  tiny  brown 
girl-baby  on  his  saddle-bow. 

"Here  is  something  for  you,  Padri,"  said  he. 
"The  Kols  leave  their  surplus  children  to  die. 
'Don't  see  why  they  shouldn't,  but  you  may  rear 
this  one.  I  picked  it  up  beyond  the  Berbulda 
fork.  I've  a  notion  that  the  mother  has  been  fol- 
lowing me  through  the  woods  ever  since." 

"It  is  the  first  of  the  fold,  "  said  Justus,  and 
Lotta  caught  up  the  screaming  morsel  to  her 
bosom  and  hushed  it  craftily;  while,  as  a  wolf 
hangs  in  the  field,  Matui,  who  had  borne  it  and 
in  accordance  with  the  law  of  her  tribe  had  ex- 
posed it  to  die,  panted  weary  and  footsore  in  the 
bamboo-brake,  watching  the  house  with  hungry 
mother-eyes.  What  would  the  omnipotent  As- 
sistant Collector  do?  Would  the  little  man  in 
the  black  coat  eat  her  daughter  alive  as  Athon 


42  The  Judgment  of  Dungara 

Daz6  said  was  the  custom  of  all  men  in  black 
coats  ? 

Matui  waited  among  the  bamboos  through  the 
long  night;  and,  in  the  morning,  there  came  forth 
a  fair  white  woman,  the  like  of  whom  Matui  had 
never  seen,  and  in  her  arms  was  Matui's  daugh- 
ter clad  in  spotless  raiment.  Lotta  knew  little  of 
♦be  tongue  of  the  Buria  Kol,  but  when  mother 
calls  to  mother,  speech  is  easy  to  follow.  By 
the  hands  stretched  timidly  to  the  hem  of  her 
gown,  by  the  passionate  gutturals  and  the  long- 
ing eyes,  Lotta  understood  with  whom  she  had 
to  deal.  So  Matui  took  her  child  again — would 
be  a  servant,  even  a  slave,  to  this  wonderful 
white  woman,  for  her  own  tribe  would  recog- 
nize her  no  more.  And  Lotta  wept  with  her  ex- 
haustively, after  the  German  fashion,  which  in- 
cludes much  blowing  of  the  nose. 

"First  the  child,  then  the  mother,  and  last  the 
man,  and  to  the  Glory  of  God  all,"  said  Justus 
the  Hopeful.  And  the  man  came,  with  a  bow 
and  arrows,  very  angry  indeed,  for  there  was  no 
one  to  cook  for  him. 

But  the  tale  of  the  Mission  is  a  long  one,  and 
I  have  no  space  to  show  how  Justus,  forgetful 
of  his  injudicious  predecessor,  grievously  smote 
Moto,  the  husband  of  Matui,  for  his  brutality; 
how  Moto  was  startled,  but  being  released  from 
the  fear  of  instant  death,  took  heart  and  became 


The  Judgment  of  Dungara  43 

the  faithful  ally  and  first  convert  of  Justus;  how 
the  little  gathering  grew,  to  the  huge  disgust  of 
Athon  Daze;  how  the  Priest  of  the  God  of  Things 
as  They  Are  argued  subtilely  with  the  Priest  of 
the  God  of  Things  as  They  Should  Be,  and  was 
worsted;  how  the  dues  of  the  Temple  of  Dun- 
gara fell  away  in  fowls  and  fish  and  honeycomb;" 
how  Lotta  lightened  the  Curse  of  Eve  among 
the  women,  and  how  Justus  did  his  best  to  intro- 
duce the  Curse  of  Adam;  how  the  Buria  Kol  re- 
belled at  this,  saying  that  their  God  was  an  idle 
God,  and  how  Justus  partially  overcame  their 
scruples  against  work,  and  taught  them  that  the 
black  earth  was  rich  in  other  produce  than  pig- 
nuts only. 

All  these  things  belong  to  the  history  of  many 
months,  and  throughout  those  months  the  white- 
haired  Athon  Daze  meditated  revenge  for  the 
tribal  neglect  of  Dungara.  With  savage  cunning 
he  feigned  friendship  toward  Justus,  even  hint- 
ing at  his  own  conversion;  but  to  the  congrega- 
tion of  Dungara  he  said  darkly:  "They  of  the 
Padri's  flock  have  put  on  clothes  and  worship  a 
busy  God.  Therefore  Dungara  will  afflict  them 
grievously  till  they  throw  themselves,  howling, 
into  the  waters  of  the  Berbulda."  At  night  the 
Red  Elephant  Tusk  boomed  and  groaned  among 
the  hills,  and  the  faithful  waked  and  said:  "The 
God  of  Things  as  They  Are  matures  revenge 


44  The  Judgment  of  Diingara 

against  the  backsliders.  Be  merciful,  Dungara, 
to  us  Thy  children,  and  give  us  all  their  crops! " 

Late  in  the  cold  weather,  the  Collector  and  his 
wife  came  into  the  Buria  Kol  country.  "Go 
and  look  at  Krenk's  Mission,"  said  Gallio.  "  He 
is  doing  good  work  in  his  own  way,  and  1  think 
he'd  be  pleased  if  you  opened  the  bamboo  chapel 
that  he  has  managed  to  run  up.  At  any  rate 
you'll  see  a  civilized  Buria  Kol." 

Great  was  the  stir  in  the  Mission.  "Now  he 
and  the  gracious  lady  will  that  we  have  done 
good  work  with  their  own  eyes  see,  and — yes — 
we  will  him  our  converts  in  all  their  new  clothes 
by  their  own  hands  constructed  exhibit.  It  will 
a  great  day  be — for  the  Lord  always,"  said  Justus, 
and  Lotta  said  "Amen." 

Justus  had,  in  his  quiet  way,  felt  jealous  of  the 
Basel  Weaving  Mission,  his  own  converts  being 
unhandy;  but  Athon  Daze  had  latterly  induced 
some  of  them  to  hackle  the  glossy  silky  fibres  of 
a  plant  that  grew  plenteously  on  the  Panth  Hills. 
It  yielded  a  cloth  white  and  smooth  almost  as  the 
tappa  of  the  South  Seas,  and  that  day  the  con- 
verts were  to  wear  for  the  first  time  clothes  made 
therefrom.     Justus  was  proud  of  his  work. 

"  They  shall  in  white  clothes  clothed  to  meet 
the  Collector  and  his  we'l-born  lady  come  down, 
singing  '  Noiv  thank  we  all  our  God.'  Then  he 
will  the  Chapel  opeOj  and— yes — even  Gallio  to 


The  Judgment  of  Dungara  45 

believe  will  begin.  Stand  so,  my  children,  two 
by  two,  and — Lotta,  why  do  they  thus  them- 
selves bescratch  ?  It  is  not  seemly  to  wriggle, 
Nala,  my  child.  The  Collector  will  be  here  and 
be  pained." 

The  Collector,  his  wife,  and  Gallio  climbed  the 
hill  to  the  Mission-station.  The  converts  were 
drawn  up  in  two  lines,  a  shining  band  nearly 
forty  strong.  "  Hah!  "  said  the  Collector,  whose 
acquisitive  bent  of  mind  led  him  to  believe  that 
he  had  fostered  the  institution  from  the  first. 
"Advancing,  I  see,  by  leaps  and  bounds." 

Never  was  truer  word  spoken!  The  Mission 
was  advancing  exactly  as  he  had  said — at  first  by 
little  hops  and  shuffles  of  shamefaced  uneasiness, 
but  soon  by  the  leaps  of  fly-stung  horses  and  the 
bounds  of  maddened  kangaroos.  From  the  hill 
of  Panth  the  Red  Elephant  Tusk  delivered  a  dry 
and  anguished  blare.  The  ranks  of  the  converts 
wavered,  broke  and  scattered  with  yells  and 
shrieks  of  pain,  while  Justus  and  Lotta  stood  hor- 
ror-stricken. 

"It  is  the  Judgment  of  Dungara!"  shouted  a 
voice.  "I  burn!  I  burn!  To  the  river  or  we 
die!" 

The  mob  wheeled  and  headed  for  the  rocks 
that  overhung  the  Berbulda,  writhing,  stamping, 
twisting  and  shedding  its  garments  as  it  ran, 
pursued  by  the  thunder  of  the  trumpet  of  Dun- 


46  The  Judgment  of  Dungara 

gara.  Justus  and  Lotta  fled  to  the  Collector  al- 
most in  tears. 

"I  cannot  understand!  Yesterday,"  panted 
Justus,  "they  had  the  Ten  Commandments. — 
What  is  this  }  Praise  the  Lord  all  good  spirits  by 
land  and  by  sea.     Nala!     Oh,  shame!  " 

With  a  bound  and  a  scream  there  alighted  on 
the  rocks  above  their  heads,  Nala,  once  the  pride 
of  the  Mission,  a  maiden  of  fourteen  summers, 
good,  docile,  and  virtuous — now  naked  as  the 
dawn  and  spitting  like  a  wild-cat. 

"  Was  it  for  this!  "  she  raved,  hurling  her  petti- 
coat at  Justus;  "  was  it  for  this  I  left  my  people 
and  Dungara — for  the  fires  of  your  Bad  Place? 
Blind  ape,  little  earthworm,  dried  fish  that  you 
are,  you  said  that  I  should  never  burn!  O  Dun- 
gara, I  burn  now!  I  burn  now!  Have  mercy, 
God  of  Things  as  They  Are! " 

She  turned  and  flung  herself  into  the  Berbulda, 
and  the  trumpet  of  Dungara  bellowed  jubilantly. 
The  last  of  the  converts  of  the  Tubingen  Mission 
had  put  a  quarter  of  a  mile  of  rapid  river  between 
herself  and  her  teachers. 

"Yesterday,"  gulped  Justus,  "she  taught  in 
the  school  A,  B,  C,  D.—  Oh!  It  is  the  work  of 
Satan ! " 

But  Gallio  was  curiously  regarding  the  maid- 
en's petticoat  where  it  had  fallen  at  his  feet.  He 
felt  its  texture,  drew  back  his  shirt-sleeve  beyond 


The  Judgment  of  Dimgara  47 

the  deep  tan  of  his  wrist  and  pressed  a  fold  of 
the  cloth  against  the  flesh.  A  blotch  of  angry 
red  rose  on  the  white  skin. 

"  Ah!  "  said  Gallio,  calmly,  "  I  thought  so." 

"  What  is  it .?"  said  Justus. 

"  I  should  call  it  the  Shirt  of  Nessus,  but — 
Where  did  you  get  the  fibre  of  this  cloth  from  ?" 

"  Athon  Daze,"  said  Justus.  "  He  showed  the 
boys  how  it  should  manufactured  be." 

"The  old  fox!  Do  you  know  that  he  has 
given  you  the  Nilgiri  Nettle — scorpion — Girar- 
denia  heterophylla — to  work  up  ?  No  wonder 
they  squirmed!  Why,  it  stings  even  when  they 
make  bridge-ropes  of  it,  unless  it's  soaked  for 
six  weeks.  The  cunning  brute!  It  would  take 
about  half  an  hour  to  burn  through  their  thick 
hides,  and  then!  " — 

Gallio  burst  into  laughter,  but  Lotta  was  weep- 
ing in  the  arms  of  the  Collector's  wife,  and  Jus- 
tus had  covered  his  face  with  his  hands. 

"  Girardenia  heterophylla  f"  repeated  Gallio. 
"  Krenk,  why  didn't  you  tell  me?  I  could  have 
saved  you  this.  Woven  fire!  Anybody  but  a 
naked  Kol  would  have  known  it,  and,  if  I'm 
a  judge  of  their  ways,  you'll  never  get  them 
back." 

He  looked  across  the  river  to  where  the  con- 
verts were  still  wallowing  and  wailing  in  the 
shallows,  and  the  laughter  died  out  of  his  eyes, 


48  The  Judgme^it  of  Dungara 

for  he  saw  that  the  Tubingen  Mission  to  the 
Buria  Kol  was  dead. 

Never  again,  though  they  hung  mournfuliv 
round  the  deserted  school  for  three  months, 
could  Lotta  or  Justus  coax  back  even  the  most 
promising  of  their  flock.  No!  The  end  of  con- 
version was  the  fire  of  the  Bad  Place— fire  that 
ran  through  the  limbs  and  gnawed  into  the 
bones.  Who  dare  a  second  time  tempt  the  an- 
ger of  Dungara  ?  Let  the  little  man  and  his  wife 
go  elsewhere.  The  Buria  Kol  would  have  none 
of  them.  An  unofficial  message  to  Athon  Daze 
that  if  a  hair  of  their  heads  were  touched,  Athon 
Daze  and  the  priests  of  Dungara  would  be  hanged 
by  Gallio  at  the  temple  shrine,  protected  Justus 
and  Lotta  from  the  stumpy  poisoned  arrows  of 
the  Buria  Kol,  but  neither  fish  nor  fowl,  honey- 
comb, salt  nor  young  pig  were  brought  to  their 
doors  any  more.  And,  alas!  man  cannot  live  by 
grace  alone  if  meat  be  wanting. 

"Let  us  go,  mine  wife,"  said  Justus;  "there 
is  no  good  here,  and  the  Lord  has  willed  that 
some  other  man  shall  the  work  take — in  good 
time— in  His  own  good  time.  We  will  go  away, 
and  I  will — yes — some  botany  bestudy." 

If  any  one  is  anxious  to  convert  the  Buria  Kol 
afresh,  there  lies  at  least  the  core  of  a  mission- 
house  under  the  hill  of  Panth.  But  the  chapel 
and  school  have  long  since  fallen  back  into  jungle. 


AT  HOWLI  THANA 


AT  HOWLI  THANA 

His  own  shoe,  his  own  head. — Native  Proverb. 

AS  a  messenger,  if  the  heart  of  the  Presence  be 
moved  to  so  great  favor.  And  on  six  ru- 
pees. Yes,  Sahib,  for  I  have  three  Httle  little  chil- 
dren whose  stomachs  are  always  empty,  and  corn 
is  now  but  forty  pounds  to  the  rupee.  1  will  make 
so  clever  a  messenger  that  you  shall  all  day  long 
be  pleased  with  me,  and,  at  the  end  of  the  year, 
bestow  a  turban.  1  know  all  the  roads  of  the 
Station  and  many  other  things.  Aha,  Sahib!  I 
am  clever.  Give  me  service.  I  was  aforetime 
in  the  Police.  A  bad  character.?  Now  without 
doubt  an  enemy  has  told  this  tale.  Never  was  I 
a  scamp.  I  am  a  man  of  clean  heart,  and  all  my 
words  are  true.  They  knew  this  when  1  was  in 
the  Police.  They  said:  "  Afzal  Khan  is  a  true 
speaker  in  whose  words  men  may  trust."  I  am 
a  Delhi  Pathan,  Sahib — all  Delhi  Pathans  are  good 
men.  You  have  seen  Delhi  }  Yes,  it  is  true  that 
there  be  many  scamps  among  the  Delhi  Pathans. 
How  wise  is  the  Sahib  !  Nothing  is  hid  from  his 
eyes,  and  he  will  make  me  his  messenger,  and  1 
will  take  all  his  notes  secretly  and  without  osten- 

5J 


52  At  Howli  Thana 

tation.  Nay,  Sahib,  God  is  my  witness  that  I 
meant  no  evil.  I  have  long  desired  to  serve  un- 
der a  true  Sahib — a  virtuous  Sahib.  Many 
young  Sahibs  are  as  devils  unchained.  With 
these  Sahibs  1  would  take  no  service — not  though 
all  the  stomachs  of  my  little  children  were  crying 
for  bread. 

Why  am  1  not  still  in  the  police.?  I  will  speak 
true  talk.  An  evil  came  to  the  Thana — to  Ram 
Baksh,  the  Havildar,  and  Maula  Baksh,  and  Jug- 
gut  Ram  and  Bhim  Singh  and  Suruj  Bui.  Ram 
Baksh  is  in  the  jail  for  a  space,  and  so  also  is 
Maula  Baksh. 

it  was  at  the  Thana  of  Howli,  on  the  road  that 
leads  to  Gokral-Seetarun  wherein  are  many 
dacoits.  We  were  all  brave  men — Rustums. 
Wherefore  we  were  sent  to  that  Thana  which  was 
eight  miles  from  the  next  Thana.  All  day  and 
all  night  we  watched  for  dacoits.  Why  does  the 
Sahib  laugh }  Nay,  I  will  make  a  confession. 
The  dacoits  were  too  clever,  and  seeing  this,  we 
made  no  further  trouble.  It  was  in  the  hot 
weather.  What  can  a  man  do  in  the  hot  days  ? 
Is  the  Sahib  who  is  so  strong — is  he,  even,  vigor- 
ous in  that  hour?  We  made  an  arrangement 
with  the  dacoits  for  the  sake  of  peace.  That  was 
the  work  of  the  Havildar  who  was  fat.  Ho!  Ho! 
Sahib,  he  is  now  getting  thin  in  the  jail  among 
the  carpets.    The  Havildar  said:     "Give  us  no 


At  Howli  Thana  53 

trouble,  and  we  will  give  you  no  trouble.  At 
tlie  end  of  tiie  reaping  send  us  a  man  to  lead  be- 
fore the  judge,  a  man  of  infirm  mind  against 
whom  the  trumped-up  case  will  break  down. 
Thus  we  shall  save  our  honor."  To  this  talk  the 
dacoits  agreed,  and  we  had  no  trouble  at  the 
Thana,  and  could  eat  melons  in  peace,  sitting 
upon  our  charpoys  all  day  long.  Sweet  as 
sugar-cane  are  the  melons  of  Howli. 

Now  there  was  an  assistant  commissioner — a 
Stunt  Sahib,  in  that  district,  called  Yunkum 
Sahib.  Aha!  He  was  hard — hard  even  as  is 
the  Sahib  who,  without  doubt,  will  give  me  the 
shadow  of  his  protection.  Many  eyes  had  Yun- 
kum Sahib,  and  moved  quickly  through  his  dis- 
trict. Men  called  him  The  Tiger  of  Gokral-See- 
tarun,  because  he  would  arrive  unannounced  and 
make  his  kill,  and,  before  sunset,  would  be  giv- 
ing trouble  to  the  Tehsildars  thirty  miles  away. 
No  one  knew  the  comings  or  the  goings  of  Yun- 
kum Sahib.  He  had  no  camp,  and  when  his 
horse  was  weary  he  rode  upon  a  devil  carriage. 
I  do  not  know  its  name,  but  the  Sahib  sat  in  the 
midst  of  three  silver  wheels  that  made  no  creak- 
ing, and  drave  them  with  his  legs,  prancing  like 
a  bean-fed  horse — thus.  A  shadow  of  a  hawk 
upon  the  fields  was  not  more  without  noise  than 
the  devil-carriage  of  Yunkum  Sahib.  It  was 
here:  it  was  there:  it  was  gone:  and  the  rapport 


54  At  Hozclt  Thana 

was  made,  and  there  was  trouble.  Ask  the 
Tehsildar  of  Rohestri  how  the  hen-stealing  came 
to  be  known,  Sahib. 

It  fell  upon  a  night  that  we  of  the  Thana  slept 
according  to  custom  upon  our  charpoys,  having 
eaten  the  evening  meal  and  drunk  tobacco. 
When  we  awoke  in  the  morning,  behold,  of  our 
six  rifles  not  one  remained !  Also,  the  big  Police- 
book  that  was  in  the  Havildar's  charge  was  gone. 
Seeing  these  things,  we  were  very  much  afraid, 
thinking  on  our  parts  that  the  dacoits,  regardless 
of  honor,  had  come  by  night,  and  put  us  to 
shame.  Then  said  Ram  Baksh,  the  Havildar: 
"  Be  silent!  The  business  is  an  evil  business, 
but  it  may  yet  go  well.  Let  us  make  the  case 
complete.  Bring  a  kid  and  my  tulwar.  See  you 
not  now,  O  fools?  A  kick  for  a  horse,  but  a 
word  is  enough  for  a  man." 

We  of  the  Thana,  perceiving  quickly  what  was 
in  the  mind  of  the  Havildar,  and  greatly  fearing 
that  the  service  would  be  lost,  made  haste  to 
take  the  kid  into  the  inner  room,  and  attended  to 
the  words  of  the  Havildar.  "Twenty  dacoits 
came,"  said  the  Havildar,  and  we,  taking  his 
words,  repeated  after  him  according  to  custom. 
"There  was  a  great  fight,"  said  the  Havildar, 
"and  of  us  no  man  escaped  unhurt.  The  bars 
of  the  window  were  broken.  Suruj  Bui,  see 
thou  to  that;  and,  O  men,  put  speed  into  your 


At  Howli  Thana  55 

work,  for  a  runner  must  go  with  the  news  to 
The  Tiger  of  Gokral-Seetarun."  Thereon,  Suruj 
Bui,  leaning  with  his  shoulder,  brake  in  the  bars 
of  the  window,  and  I,  beating  her  with  a  whip, 
made  the  Havildar's  mare  skip  among  the  melon- 
beds  till  they  were  much  trodden  with  hoof- 
prints. 

These  things  being  made,  I  returned  to  the 
Thana,  and  the  goat  was  slain,  and  certain  por- 
tions of  the  walls  were  blackened  with  fire,  and 
each  man  dipped  his  clothes  a  little  into  the  blood 
of  the  goat.  Know,  O  Sahib,  that  a  wound 
made  by  man  upon  his  own  body  can,  by  those 
skilled,  be  easily  discerned  from  a  wound  wrought 
by  another  man.  Therefore,  the  Havildar,  taking 
his  tulwar,  smote  one  of  us  lightly  on  the  fore- 
arm in  the  fat,  and  another  on  the  leg,  and  a 
third  on  the  back  of  the  hand.  Thus  dealt  he 
with  all  of  us  till  the  blood  came;  and  Suruj  Bui, 
more  eager  than  the  others,  took  out  much  hair, 
O  Sahib,  never  was  so  perfect  an  arrangement. 
Yea,  even  I  would  have  sworn  that  the  Thana 
had  been  treated  as  we  said.  There  was  smoke 
and  breaking  and  blood  and  trampled  earth. 

"Ride  now,  Maula  Baksh,"  said  the  Havildar, 
"to  the  house  of  the  Stunt  Sahib,  and  carry  the 
news  of  the  dacoity.  Do  you  also,  O  Afzal 
Khan,  run  there,  and  take  heed  that  you  are 
mired  with  sweat  and  dust  on  your  in-coming. 


56  At  Howlt  Thana 

The  blood  will  be  dry  on  the  clothes.  I  will 
stay  and  send  a  straight  report  to  the  Dipty 
Sahib,  and  we  will  catch  certain  that  ye  know  of, 
villagers,  so  that  all  may  be  ready  against  the 
Dipty  Sahib's  arrival." 

Thus  Maula  Baksh  rode  and  I  ran  hanging  on 
the  stirrup,  and  together  we  came  in  an  evil 
plight  before  The  Tiger  of  Gokral-Seetarun  in 
the  Rohestri  tehsil.  Our  tale  was  long  and  cor- 
rect, Sahib,  for  we  gave  even  the  names  of  the 
dacoits  and  the  issue  of  the  fight  and  besought 
him  to  come.  But  The  Tiger  made  no  sign,  and 
only  smiled  after  the  manner  of  Sahibs  when 
they  have  a  wickedness  in  their  hearts.  "  Swear 
ye  to  the  rapport.?"  said  he,  and  we  said:  "Thy 
servants  swear.  The  blood  of  the  fight  is  but 
newly  dry  upon  us.  Judge  thou  if  it  be  the 
blood  of  the  servants  of  the  Presence,  or  not." 
And  he  said:  "I  see.  Ye  have  done  well."  But 
he  did  not  call  for  his  horse  or  his  devil-carriage, 
and  scour  the  land  as  was  his  custom.  He  said: 
"Rest  now  and  eat  bread,  for  ye  be  wearied 
men.  I  will  wait  the  coming  of  the  Dipty 
Sahib." 

Now  it  is  the  order  that  the  Havildar  of  the 
Thana  should  send  a  straight  report  of  all  dacoit- 
ies  to  the  Dipty  Sahib.  At  noon  came  he,  a  fat. 
man  and  an  old,  and  overbearing  withal,  but  we 
of  the  Thana  had  no  fear  of  his  anger;  dreading 


At  Howlt  Thana 


57 


more  the  silences  of  The  Tiger  of  Gokral-Seetarun. 
With  him  came  Ram  Baksh,  the  Havildar,  and 
the  others,  guarding  ten  men  of  the  village  of 
Howli — all  men  evil  affected  toward  the  Police  of 
the  Sirkar.  As  prisoners  they  came,  the  irons 
upon  their  hands,  crying  for  mercy — Imam 
Baksh,  the  farmer,  who  had  denied  his  wife  to 
the  Havildar,  and  others,  ill-conditioned  rascals 
against  whom  we  of  the  Thana  bore  spite.  It 
was  well  done,  and  the  Havildar  was  proud. 
But  the  Dipty  Sahib  was  angry  with  the  Stunt 
for  lack  of  zeal,  and  said  "  Dam-Dam  "  after  the 
custom  of  the  English  people,  and  extolled  the 
Havildar.  Yunkum  Sahib  lay  still  in  his  long  chair. 
"Have  the  men  sworn?"  said  Yunkum  Sahib. 
"Aye,  and  captured  ten  evil-doers,"  said  the 
Dipty  Sahib.  "There  be  more  abroad  m  your 
charge.  Take  horse— ride,  and  go  in  the  name 
of  the  Sirkar! "  "  Truly  there  be  more  evil-doers 
abroad,"  said  Yunkum  Sahib,  "but  there  is  no 
need  of  a  horse.     Come  all  men  with  me." 

I  saw  the  mark  of  a  string  on  the  temples  of 
Imam  Baksh.  Does  the  Presence  know  the  tor- 
ture of  the  Cold  Draw  ?  I  saw  also  the  face  of 
The  Tiger  of  Gokral-Seetarun,  the  evil  smile  was 
upon  it,  and  I  stood  back  ready  for  what  might 
befall.  Well  it  was,  Sahib,  tuat  I  did  this  thing. 
Yunkum  Sahib  unlocked  the  door  of  his  bath- 
room,  and   smiled   anew.     Within    lay  the  six 


^8  y4t  Howli  Thana 

rifles  and  the  big  Police-book  of  the  Thana  of 
Howli!  He  had  come  by  night  in  the  devil-car- 
riage that  is  noiseless  as  a  ghoul,  and  moving 
among  us  asleep,  had  taken  away  both  the  guns 
and  the  book!  Twice  had  he  come  to  the  Thana, 
taking  each  time  three  rifles.  The  liver  of  the 
Havildar  was  turned  to  water,  and  he  fell  scrab- 
bling in  the  dirt  about  the  boots  of  Yunkum 
Sahib,  crying — "Have  mercy!" 

And  1  ?  Sahib,  I  am  a  Delhi  Pathan,  and  a 
young  man  with  little  children.  The  Havildar's 
mare  was  in  the  compound.  I  ran  to  her  and 
rode:  the  black  wrath  of  the  Sirkar  was  behind 
me,  and  I  knew  not  whitiier  to  go.  Till  she 
dropped  and  died  1  rode  the  red  mare;  and  by 
the  blessing  of  God,  who  is  without  doubt  on 
the  side  of  all  just  men,  I  escaped.  But  the 
Havildar  and  the  rest  are  now  in  jail. 

1  am  a  scamp  ?  it  is  as  the  Presence  pleases. 
God  will  make  the  Presence  a  Lord,  and  give  him 
a  rich  Memsahib  as  fair  as  a  Peri  to  wife,  and 
many  strong  sons,  if  he  makes  me  his  orderly. 
The  Mercy  of  Heaven  be  upon  the  Sahib!  Yes, 
I  will  only  go  to  the  bazar  and  bring  my  children 
to  these  so-palace-like  quarters,  and  then — the 
Presence  is  my  Father  and  my  Mother,  and  1, 
Afzal  Khan,  am  his  slave. 

Ohe,  Sirdar-ji!  1  also  am  of  the  household  of 
the  Sahib. 


GEMINI 

Great  is  the  justice  of  the  White  Man — greater  the  power  of 
a  lie. — Native  Proverb. 

THIS  is  your  English  Justice,  Protector  of  the 
Poor.  Look  at  my  back  and  loins  which 
are  beaten  with  sticks — heavy  sticks!  I  am  a 
poor  man,  and  there  is  no  justice  in  Courts. 

There  were  two  of  us,  and  we  were  born  of 
one  birth,  but  I  swear  to  you  that  I  was  born  the 
first,  and  Ram  Dass  is  the  younger  by  three  full 
breaths.  The  astrologer  said  so,  and  it  is  written 
in  my  horoscope — the  horoscope  of  Durga  Dass. 

But  we  were  alike — I  and  my  brother  who  is  a 
beast  without  honor — so  alike  that  none  knew, 
together  or  apart,  which  was  Durga  Dass.  I  am 
a  Mahajun  of  Pali  in  Marwar,  and  an  honest  man. 
This  is  true  talk.  When  we  were  men,  we  left 
Dur  father's  house  in  Pali,  and  went  to  the  Pun- 
jab, where  all  the  people  are  mud-heads  and  sons 
of  asses.  We  took  shop  together  in  Isser  Jang — 
1  and  my  brother — near  the  big  well  where  the 
Governor's  camp  draws  water.  But  Ram  Dass, 
who  is  without  truth,  made  quarrel  with  me,  and 
we  were  divided.  He  took  his  books,  and  his 
pots,  and  his  Mark,   and  became  a  bunnia — a 

6i 


62  Gemini 

money-lender  —  in  the  long  street  of  Isser  Jang, 
near  the  gateway  of  the  road  that  goes  to  Mont- 
gomery, It  was  not  my  fault  that  we  pulled  each 
other's  turbans.  1  am  a  Mahajun  of  Pali,  and 
1  always  speak  true  talk.  Ram  Dass  was  the 
thief  and  the  liar. 

Now  no  man,  not  even  the  little  children,  could 
at  one  glance  see  which  was  Ram  Dass  and 
which  was  Durga  Dass.  But  all  the  people  of 
Isser  Jang  —  may  they  die  without  sons  !  —  said 
that  we  were  thieves.  They  used  much  bad 
talk,  but  I  took  money  on  their  bedsteads  and 
their  cooking-pots  and  the  standing  crop  and  the 
calf  unborn,  from  the  well  in  the  big  square  to 
the  gate  of  the  Montgomery  road.  They  were 
fools,  these  people  —  unfit  to  cut  the  toe-nails  of  a 
Marwari  from  Pali.  I  loaned  money  to  them  all. 
A  little,  very  little  only  —  here  a  pice  and  there  a 
pice.  God  is  my  witness  that  1  am  a  poor  man ! 
The  money  is  all  with  Ram  Dass  —  may  his  sons 
turn  Christian,  and  his  daughter  be  a  burning  fire 
and  a  shame  in  the  house  from  generation  to 
generation !  May  she  die  unwed,  and  be  the 
mother  of  a  multitude  of  bastards !  Let  the  light 
go  out  in  the  house  of  Ram  Dass,  my  brother. 
This  I  pray  daily  twice  —  with  offerings  and 
charms. 

Thus  the  trouble  began.  We  divided  the  town 
of  Isser  Jang  between   us  —  1   and   my  brother 


Gemini  6^ 

There  was  a  landholder  beyond  the  gates,  living 
but  one  short  mile  out,  on  the  road  that  leads  to 
Montgomery,  and  his  name  was  Muhammad  Shah, 
son  of  a  Nawab.  He  was  a  g'-  ^at  devil  and  drank 
wine.  So  long  as  there  were  .vcmen  in  his  house, 
and  wine  and  money  for  the  marriage-feasts,  he 
was  merry  and  wiped  his  mouth.  Ram  Dass 
loaned  him  the  money,  a  lakh  or  half  a  lakii — 
how  do  1  know  ? — and  so  long  as  the  money  was 
loaned,  the  landholder  cared  not  what  he  signed. 

The  people  of  Isser  Jang  were  my  portion,  and 
the  landholder  and  the  out-town  was  the  portion 
of  Ram  Dass ;  for  so  we  had  arranged.  I  was 
the  poor  man,  for  the  people  of  Isser  Jang  were 
without  wealth.  I  did  what  I  could,  but  Ram 
Dass  had  only  to  wait  without  the  door  of  the 
landholder's  garden-court,  and  to  lend  him  the 
money;  taking  the  bonds  from  the  hand  of  the 
steward. 

In  the  autumn  of  the  year  after  the  lending, 
Ram  Dass  said  to  the  landholder:  "  Pay  me  my 
money,"  but  the  landholder  gave  him  abuse. 
But  Ram  Dass  went  into  the  Courts  with  the 
papers  and  the  bonds — all  correct — and  took  out 
decrees  against  the  landholder;  and  the  name  of 
the  Government  was  across  the  stamps  of  the 
decrees.  Ram  Dass  took  field  by  field,  and 
mango-tree  by  mango-tree,  and  well  by  wefl; 
putting  in  his  own   men — debtors  of  the  out- 


$4  Gemini 

town  of  Isser  Jang — to  cultivate  the  crops.  So 
he  crept  up  across  the  land,  for  he  had  the 
papers,  and  the  name  of  the  Government  was 
across  the  stamps,  till  his  men  held  the  crops  for 
him  on  all  sides  of  the  big  white  house  of  the 
landholder.  It  was  well  done;  but  when  the 
landholder  saw  these  things  he  was  very  angry 
and  cursed  Ram  Dass  after  the  manner  of  the 
Muhammadans. 

And  thus  the  landholder  was  angry,  but  Ram 
Dass  laughed  and  claimed  more  fields,  as  was 
written  upon  the  bonds.  This  was  in  the  month 
of  Phagun.  I  took  my  horse  and  went  out  to 
speak  to  the  man  who  makes  lac-bangles  upon 
the  road  that  leads  to  Montgomery,  because  he 
owed  me  a  debt.  There  was  in  front  of  me, 
upon  his  horse,  my  brother  Ram  Dass.  And 
when  he  saw  me,  he  turned  aside  into  the  high 
crops,  because  there  was  hatred  between  us. 
And  1  went  forward  till  I  came  to  the  orange- 
bushes  by  the  landholder's  house.  The  bats 
were  flying,  and  the  evening  smoke  was  low 
down  upon  the  land.  Here  met  me  four  men— 
swash-bucklers  and  Muhammadans — with  their 
faces  bound  up,  laying  hold  of  my  horse's  bridle 
and  crying  out:  "This  is  Ram  Dass!  Beat!" 
Me  they  beat  with  their  staves — heavy  staves 
bound  about  with  wire  at  the  end,  such  weapons 
as  those  swine  of  Punjabis  use — till,  having  cried 


Gemini  65 

for  mercy,  I  fell  down  senseless.  But  these 
shameless  ones  still  beat  me,  saying:  "O  Ram 
Dass,  this  is  your  interest — well  weighed  and 
counted  into  your  hand.  Ram  Dass."  1  cried 
aloud  that  1  was  not  Ram  Dass  but  Durga  Dass, 
his  brother,  yet  they  only  beat  me  the  more,  and 
when  1  could  make  no  more  outcry  they  left  me. 
But  I  saw  their  faces.  There  was  Elahi  Baksh 
who  runs  by  the  side  of  the  landholder's  white 
horse,  and  Nur  Ali  the  keeper  of  the  door,  and 
Wajib  Ali  the  very  strong  cook,  and  Abdul  Latif 
the  messenger — all  of  the  household  of  the  land- 
holder. These  things  I  can  swear  on  the  Cow's 
Tail  if  need  be,  bui—Ahi!  Ahi!—\\  has  been 
already  sworn,  and  I  am  a  poor  man  whose 
honor  is  lost. 

When  these  four  had  gone  away  laughing,  my 
brother  Ram  Dass  came  out  of  the  crops  and 
mourned  over  me  as  one  dead.  But  I  opened  my 
eyes,  and  prayed  him  to  get  me  water.  When  I 
had  drunk,  he  carried  me  on  his  back,  and  by 
byways  brought  me  into  the  town  of  Isser  Jang. 
My  heart  was  turned  to  Ram  Dass,  my  brother, 
in  that  hour,  because  of  his  kindness,  and  1  lost 
my  enmity. 

But  a  snake  is  a  snake  till  it  is  dead;  and  a  liar 
is  a  liar  till  the  Judgment  of  the  Gods  takes  hold 
of  his  heel.  I  was  wrong  in  that  1  trusted  my 
brother — the  son  of  my  mother. 


^  Gemini 

When  we  had  come  to  his  house  and  I  was  a 
little  restored,  I  told  him  my  tale,  and  he  said: 
"  Without  doubt  it  is  me  whom  they  would  have 
beaten.  But  the  Law  Courts  are  open,  and  there 
is  the  Justice  of  the  Sirkar  above  all;  and  to  the 
Law  Courts  do  thou  go  when  this  sickness  is 
overpast." 

Now  when  we  two  had  left  Pali  in  the  old 
years,  there  fell  a  famine  that  ran  from  Jeysulmir 
to  Gurgaon  and  touched  Gogunda  in  the  south. 
At  that  time  the  sister  of  my  father  came  away 
and  lived  with  us  in  Isser  Jang;  for  a  man  must 
above  all  see  that  his  folk  do  not  die  of  want. 
When  the  quarrel  between  us  twain  came  about, 
the  sister  of  my  father — a  lean  she-dog  without 
teeth — said  that  Ram  Dass  had  the  right,  and 
went  with  him.  Into  her  hands — because  she 
knew  medicines  and  many  cures — Ram  Dass,  my 
brother,  put  me  faint  with  the  beating,  and  much 
bruised  even  to  the  pouring  of  blood  from  the 
mouth.  When  1  had  two  days'  sickness  the 
fever  came  upon  me;  and  1  set  aside  the  fever  to 
the  account  written  in  my  mind  against  the  land- 
holder. 

The  Punjabis  of  Isser  Jang  are  all  the  sons  of 
Belial  and  a  she-ass,  but  they  are  very  good  wit- 
nesses, bearing  testimony  unshakingly  whatever 
the  pleaders  may  say.  1  would  purchase  wit- 
nesses by  the  score,  and  each  man  should  give 


Gemini  67 

evidence,  not  only  against  Nur  Ali,  Wajib  All, 
Abdul  Latif  and  Elahi  Baksh,  but  against  the 
landholder,  saying  that  he  upon  his  white  horse 
had  called  his  men  to  beat  me;  and,  further,  that 
they  had  robbed  me  of  two  hundred  rupees. 
For  the  latter  testimony,  1  would  remit  a  little  of 
the  debt  of  the  man  who  sold  the  lac-bangles, 
and  he  should  say  that  he  had  put  the  money 
into  my  hands,  and  had  seen  the  robbery  from 
afar,  but,  being  afraid,  had  run  away.  This  plan 
1  told  to  my  brother  Ram  Dass;  and  he  said  that 
the  arrangement  was  good,  and  bade  me  take 
comfort  and  make  swift  work  to  be  abroad 
again.  My  heart  was  opened  to  my  brother  in 
my  sickness,  and  I  told  him  the  names  of  those 
whom  I  would  call  as  witnesses — all  men  in  my 
debt,  but  of  that  the  Magistrate  Sahib  could  have 
no  knowledge,  nor  the  landholder.  The  fever 
stayed  with  me,  and  after  the  fever,  I  was  taken 
with  colic,  and  gripings  very  terrible.  In  that 
day  i  thought  that  my  end  was  at  hand,  but  I 
know  now  that  she  who  gave  me  the  medicines, 
the  sister  of  my  father — a  widow  with  a  widow's 
heart — had  brought  about  my  second  sickness. 
Ram  Dass,  my  brother,  said  that  my  house  was 
shut  and  locked,  and  brought  me  the  big  door- 
key  and  my  books,  together  with  all  the  moneys 
that  were  in  my  house — even  the  money  that 
was  buried  under  the  floor;  for  I  was  in  great 


68  Gemini 

fear  lest  thieves  should  break  in  and  dig.  I  speak 
true  talk;  there  was  but  very  little  money  in  my 
house.  Perhaps  ten  rupees — perhaps  twenty. 
How  can  1  tell  ?  God  is  my  witness  that  I  am  a 
poor  man. 

One  night,  when  I  had  told  Ram  Dass  all  that 
was  in  my  heart  of  the  lawsuit  that  1  would  bring 
against  the  landholder,  and  Ram  Dass  had  said 
that  he  had  made  the  arrangements  with  the  wit- 
nesses, giving  me  their  names  written,  I  was 
taken  with  a  new  great  sickness,  and  they  put 
me  on  the  bed.  When  I  was  a  little  recovered — 
I  cannot  tell  how  many  days  afterward — I  made 
enquiry  for  Ram  Dass,  and  the  sister  of  my 
father  said  that  he  had  gone  to  Montgomery  upon 
a  lawsuit.  I  took  medicine  and  slept  very 
heavily  without  waking.  When  my  eyes  were 
opened,  there  was  a  great  stillness  in  the  house 
of  Ram  Dass,  and  none  answered  when  1  called 
• — not  even  the  sister  of  my  father.  This  filled 
me  with  fear,  for  1  knew  not  what  had  hap- 
pened. 

Taking  a  stick  in  my  hand,  I  went  out  slowly, 
till  I  came  to  the  great  square  by  the  well,  and 
my  heart  was  hot  in  me  against  the  landholder 
because  of  the  pain  of  every  step  I  took. 

I  called  for  Jowar  Singh,  the  carpenter,  whose 
name  was  first  upon  the  list  of  those  who  should 
bear    evidence   against  the   landholder,   saying: 


Gemini  69 

"  Are  all  things  ready,  and  do  you  know  what 
should  be  said?" 

Jowar  Singh  answered:  "What  is  this,  and 
whence  do  you  come,  Durga  Dass  ?" 

I  said:  "From  my  bed,  where  1  have  so  long 
lain  sick  because  of  the  landholder.  Where  is 
Ram  Dass,  my  brother,  who  was  to  have  made 
the  arrangement  for  the  witnesses  ?  Surely  you 
and  yours  know  these  things!  " 

Then  Jowar  Singh  said:  "What  has  this  to 
do  with  us,  O  Liar  ?  1  have  borne  witness  and  I 
have  been  paid,  and  the  landholder  has,  by  the 
order  of  the  Court,  paid  both  the  five  hundred 
rupees  that  he  robbed  from  Ram  Dass  and  yet 
other  five  hundred  because  of  the  great  injury  he 
did  to  your  brother." 

The  well  and  the  jujube-tree  above  it  and  the 
square  of  Isser  Jang  became  dark  in  my  eyes,  but 
I  leaned  on  my  stick  and  said:  "Nay!  This  is 
child's  talk  and  senseless.  It  was  I  who  suffered 
at  the  hands  of  the  landholder,  and  1  am  come  to 
make  ready  the  case.  Where  is  my  brother  Ram 
Dass .? " 

But  Jowar  Singh  shook  his  head,  and  a  woman 
cried:  "What  lie  is  here.?  What  quarrel  had 
the  landholder  with  you,  hunnia  ?  It  is  only  a 
shameless  one  and  one  without  faith,  who  profits 
by  his  brother's  smarts.  Have  these  bunnias  no 
bowels?" 


•yo  Gemini 

\  cried  again,  saying:  "By  the  Cov^— by  the 
Oath  of  the  Cow,  by  the  Temple  of  the  Blue- 
throated  Mahadeo,  I  and  I  only  was  beaten — 
beaten  to  the  death!  Let  your  talk  be  straight,  O 
people  of  Isser  Jang,  and  I  will  pay  for  the  wit- 
nesses." And  I  tottered  where  1  stood,  for  the 
sickness  and  the  pain  of  the  beating  were  heavy 
upon  me. 

Then  Ram  Narain,  who  has  his  carpet  spread 
under  the  jujube-tree  by  the  well,  and  writes  all 
letters  for  the  men  of  the  town,  came  up  and 
said:  "  To-day  is  the  one  and  fortieth  day  since 
the  beating,  and  since  these  six  days  the  case  has 
been  judged  in  the  Court,  and  the  Assistant  Com- 
missioner Sahib  has  given  it  for  your  brother  Ram 
Dass,  allowing  the  robbery,  to  which,  too,  I  bore 
witness,  and  all  things  else  as  the  witnesses  said. 
There  were  many  witnesses,  and  twice  Ram 
Dass  became  senseless  in  the  Court  because  of 
his  wounds,  and  the  Stunt  Sahib — the  haba  Stunt 
Sahib — gave  him  a  chair  before  all  the  pleaders. 
Why  do  you  howl,  Durga  Dass  ?  These  things 
fell  as  I  have  said.     Was  it  not  so  ?" 

And  Jowar  Singh  said :  "That  is  truth.  I  was 
there,  and  there  was  a  red  cushion  in  the  chair." 

And  Ram  Narain  said:  "Great  shame  has 
come  upon  the  landholder  because  of  this  judg- 
ment, and  fearing  his  anger,  Ram  Dass  and  all 
his  house  have  gone  back  to  Pali.     Ram  Dass 


Gemini  71 

told  us  that  you  also  had  gone  first,  the  enmity 
being  healed  between  you,  to  open  a  shop  in 
Pali.  Indeed,  it  were  well  for  you  that  you  go 
even  now,  for  the  landholder  has  sworn  that  if 
he  catch  any  one  of  your  house,  he  will  hang 
him  by  the  heels  from  the  well-beam,  and, 
swinging  him  to  and  fro,  will  beat  him  with 
staves  till  the  blood  runs  from  his  ears.  What  I 
have  said  in  respect  to  the  case  is  true,  as  these 
men  here  can  testify — even  to  the  five  hundred 
rupees." 

I  said:  "Was  it  five  hundred.?"  And  Kirpa 
Ram,  the  jat,  said:  "Five  hundred;  for  I  bore 
witness  also." 

And  I  groaned,  for  it  had  been  in  my  heart  to 
have  said  two  hundred  only. 

Then  a  new  fear  came  upon  me  and  my 
bowels  turned  to  water,  and,  running  swiftly  to 
the  house  of  Ram  Dass,  I  sought  for  my  books 
and  my  money  in  the  great  wooden  chest  under 
my  bedstead.  There  remained  nothing:  not  even 
a  cowrie's  value.  All  had  been  taken  by  the 
devil  who  said  he  was  my  brother,  I  went  to 
my  own  house  also  and  opened  the  boards  of  the 
shutters;  but  there  also  was  nothing  save  the  rats 
among  the  grain-baskets.  In  that  hour  my 
senses  left  me,  and,  tearing  my  clothes,  I  ran  to 
the  well-place,  crying  out  for  the  Justice  of  the 
English  on  my  brother  Ram  Dass,  and,  in  my 


*]2  Gemini 

madness,  telling  all  that  the  books  were  lost. 
When  men  saw  that  I  would  have  jumped  down 
the  well,  they  believed  the  truth  of  my  talk; 
more  especially  because  upon  my  back  and  bosom 
were  still  the  marks  of  the  staves  of  the  land- 
holder. 

Jowar  Singh  the  carpenter  withstood  me,  and 
turning  me  in  his  hands — for  he  is  a  very  strong 
man — showed  the  scars  upon  my  body,  and 
bowed  down  with  laughter  upon  the  well-curb. 
He  cried  aloud  so  that  all  heard  him,  from  the 
well-square  to  the  Caravanserai  of  the  Pilgrims: 
"Oho!  The  jackals  have  quarreled,  and  the 
grey  one  has  been  caught  in  the  trap.  In  truth, 
this  man  has  been  grievously  beaten,  and  his 
brother  has  taken  the  money  which  the  Court 
decreed!  Oh,  bunnia,  this  shall  be  told  for  years 
against  you!  The  jackals  have  quarreled,  and, 
moreover,  the  books  are  burned.  O  people  in- 
debted to  Durga  Dass — and  I  know  that  ye  be 
many — the  books  are  burned!" 

Then  all  Isser  Jang  took  up  the  cry  that  the 
books  were  burned — Ahi !  Ahi!  that  in  my 
folly  I  had  let  that  escape  my  mouth — and  they 
laughed  throughout  the  city.  They  gave  me  the 
abuse  of  the  Punjabi,  which  is  a  terrible  abuse 
and  very  hot;  pelting  me  also  with  sticks  and 
cow-dung  till  I  fell  down  and  cried  for  mercy. 

Ram  Narain,  the  letter-writer,  bade  the  people 


Gemini  75 

cease,  for  fear  that  the  news  should  get  into 
Montgomery,  and  the  Policemen  might  come 
down  to  inquire.  He  said,  using  many  bad 
words:  "This  much  mercy  will  I  do  to  you, 
Durga  Dass,  though  there  was  no  mercy  in  your 
dealings  with  my  sister's  son  over  the  matter  of 
the  dun  heifer.  Has  any  man  a  pony  on  which 
he  sets  no  store,  that  this  fellow  may  escape  ? 
If  the  landholder  hears  that  one  of  the  twain 
(and  God  knows  whether  he  beat  one  or  both, 
but  this  man  is  certainly  beaten)  be  in  the  city, 
there  will  be  a  murder  done,  and  then  will  come 
the  Police,  making  inquisition  into  each  man's 
house  and  eating  the  sweet-seller's  stuff  all  day 
long." 

Kirpa  Ram  the jat,  said:  "I  have  a  pony  very 
sick.  But  with  beating  he  can  be  made  to  walk 
for  two  miles.  If  he  dies,  the  hide-sellers  will 
have  the  body." 

Then  Chumbo,  the  hide-seller,  said :  ° '  I  will  pay 
three  annas  for  the  body,  and  will  walk  by  this 
man's  side  till  such  time  as  the  pony  dies.  If  it 
be  more  than  two  miles,  I  will  pay  two  annas 
only." 

Kirpa  Ram  said:  "Be  it  so."  Men  brought 
out  the  pony,  and  I  asked  leave  to  draw  a  little 
water  from  the  well,  because  I  was  dried  up  with 
fear. 

Then  Ram  Narain  said:  "  Here  be  four  annas. 


"74  Gemini 

God  has  brought  you  very  low,  Durga  Dass,  and 
I  would  not  send  you  away  empty,  even  though 
the  matter  of  my  sister's  son's  dun  heifer  be  an 
open  sore  between  us.  It  is  a  long  way  to  your 
own  country.  Go,  and  if  it  be  so  willed,  live; 
but,  above  all,  do  not  take  the  pony's  bridle,  for 
that  is  mine." 

And  I  went  out  of  Isser  Jang,  amid  the  laugh- 
ing of  the  huge-thighed  Jats,  and  the  hide-seller 
walked  by  my  side  waiting  for  the  pony  to  fall 
dead.  In  one  mile  it  died,  and  being  full  of  fear 
of  the  landholder,  I  ran  till  I  could  run  no  more 
and  came  to  this  place. 

But  I  swear  by  the  Cow,  I  swear  by  all  things 
whereon  Hindus  and  Musalmans,  and  even  the 
Sahibs  swear,  that  I,  and  not  my  brother,  was 
beaten  by  the  landholder.  But  the  case  is  shut 
and  the  doors  of  the  Law  Courts  are  shut,  and 
God  knows  where  the  baba  Stunt  Sahib — the 
mother's  milk  is  not  yet  dry  upon  his  hairless  lip 
— is  gone.  Ahi !  Ahi!  I  have  no  witnesses, 
and  the  scars  will  heal,  and  I  am  a  poor  man. 
But,  on  my  Father's  Soul,  on  the  oath  of  a 
Mahajun  from  Pali,  I,  and  not  my  brother,  I  was 
beaten  by  the  landholder! 

What  can  I  do  ?  The  Justice  of  the  English  is 
as  a  great  river.  Having  gone  forward,  it  does 
not  return.  Howbeit,  do  you,  Sahib,  take  a  pen 
and  write  clearly  what  I  have  said,  that  the  Dipty 


Gemini  75 

Sahib  may  see,  and  reprove  the  Stunt  Sahib,  who 
is  a  colt  yet  unlicked  by  the  mare,  so  young  is 
he.  I,  and  not  my  brother,  was  beaten,  and  he 
is  gone  to  the  west — I  do  not  know  where. 

But,  above  all  things,  write — so  that  Sahibs 
may  read,  and  his  disgrace  be  accomplished — 
that  Ram  Dass,  my  brother,  son  of  Purun  Dass, 
Mahajun  of  Pali,  is  a  swine  and  a  night-thief, 
a  taker  of  life,  an  eater  of  flesh,  a  jackal-spawn 
without  beauty,  or  faith,  or  cleanliness,  or  honor! 


AT  TWENTY-TWO 


AT  TWENTY-TWO 

Narrow  as  the  womb,  deep  as  the  Pit,  and  dark  as  the  heart 
of  a  man. — Sonthal  Miner^s  Proverb. 

((  A    WEAVER  went  out  to  reap  but  stayed  to 
r\     unravel  the  corn-stalks.     Ha!    Ha!    Ha! 
Is  there  any  sense  in  a  weaver.?" 

Janki  Meah  glared  at  Kundoo,  but,  as  Janki 
Meah  was  blind,  Kundoo  was  not  impressed. 
He  had  come  to  argue  with  Janki  Meah,  and,  if 
chance  favored,  to  make  love  to  the  old  man's 
pretty  young  wife. 

This  was  Kundoo's  grievance,  and  he  spoke  in 
the  name  of  all  the  five  men  who,  with  Janki 
Meah,  composed  the  gang  in  Number  Seven  gal- 
lery of  Twenty-Two.  Janki  Meah  had  been  blind 
for  the  thirty  years  during  which  he  had  served 
the  Jimahari  Collieries  with  pick  and  crowbar. 
All  through  those  thirty  years  he  had  regularly, 
every  morning  before  going  down,  drawn  from 
the  overseer  his  allowance  of  lamp-oil — just  as  if 
he  had  been  an  eyed  miner.  What  Kundoo's 
gang  resented,  as  hundreds  of  gangs  had  re- 
sented before,  was  Janki  Meah's  selfishness.  He 
would  not  add  the  oil  to  the  common  stock  of 
his  gang,  but  would  save  and  sell  it. 

79 


8o  At  Twenty-Two 

"I  knew  these  workings  before  you  were 
born,"  Janki  Meah  used  to  reply:  "  I  don't  want 
the  light  to  get  my  coal  out  by,  and  I  am  not  go- 
ing to  help  you.  The  oil  is  mine,  and  I  intend 
to  keep  it." 

A  strange  man  in  many  ways  was  Janki  Meah, 
the  white-haired,  hot  tempered,  sightless  weaver 
who  had  turned  pitman.  All  day  long — except 
on  Sundays  and  Mondays  when  he  was  usually 
drunk — he  worked  in  the  Twenty-Two  shaft  of 
the  Jimahari  Colliery  as  cleverly  as  a  man  with 
all  the  senses.  At  evening  he  went  up  in  the 
great  steam-hauled  cage  to  the  pit-bank,  and 
there  called  for  his  pony — a  rusty,  coal-dusty 
beast,  nearly  as  old  as  Janki  Meah.  The  pony 
would  come  to  his  side,  and  Janki  Meah  would 
clamber  on  to  its  back  and  be  taken  at  once  to 
the  plot  of  land  which  he,  like  the  other  miners, 
received  from  the  Jimahari  Company.  The  pony 
knew  that  place,  and  when,  after  six  years,  the 
Company  changed  all  the  allotments  to  prevent 
the  miners  from  acquiring  proprietary  rights, 
Janki  Meah  represented,  with  tears  in  his  eyes, 
that  were  his  holdings  shifted,  he  would  never 
be  able  to  find  his  way  to  the  new  one.  "My 
horse  only  knows  that  place,"  pleaded  Janki 
Meah,  and  so  he  was  allowed  to  keep  his  land. 

On  the  strength  of  this  concession  and  his  ac- 
cumulated oil-savings,  Janki  Meah  took  a  second 


At  Twenty-Two  8i 

wife — a  girl  of  the  Jolaha   main  stock  of  the 
Meahs,    and    singularly   beautiful.     Janki    Meah 
could  not  see  her  beauty;  wherefore  he  took  her 
on  trust,  and  forbade  her  to  go  down  the  pit. 
He  had  not  worked  for  thirty  years  in  the  dark 
without  knowing  that  the  pit  was  no  place  for 
pretty  women.     He  loaded  her  with  ornaments 
— not  brass  or  pewter,  but  real  silver  ones — and 
she  rewarded  him  by  flirting  outrageously  with 
Kundoo  of  Number  Seven  gallery  gang.    Kundoo 
was  really  the  gang-head,  but  Janki  Meah  insisted 
upon   all  the  v/ork  being  entered  in  his  own 
name,  and  chose  the  men  that  he  worked  with. 
Custom — stronger  even  than  the  Jimahari  Com- 
pany—dictated that  Janki,  by  right  of  his  years, 
should  manage  these  things,  and  should,  also, 
work   despite   his   blindness.     In   Indian   mines 
where  they  cut  into  the  solid  coal  with  the  pick 
and  clear  it  out  from  floor  to  ceiling,  he  could 
come  to  no  great  harm.     At  Home,  where  they 
undercut  the  coal  and  bring  it  down  in  crashing 
avalanches  from  the  roof,  he  would  never  have 
been  allowed  to  set  foot  in  a  pit.     He  was  not  a 
popular  man,  because  of  his  oil-savings  ;  but  all 
the  gangs  admitted  that  Janki  knew  all  the  khads, 
or  workings,  that  had  ever  been  sunk  or  worked 
since  the  Jimahari  Company  first  started  oper- 
ations on  the  Tarachunda  fields. 

Pretty  little  Unda  only  knew  that  her  old  hus- 


82  At  Twenty-Two 

band  was  a  fool  who  could  be  managed.  She 
took  no  interest  in  the  collieries  except  in  so  far 
as  they  swallowed  up  Kundoo  five  days  out  of 
the  seven,  and  covered  him  with  coal-dust. 
Kundoo  was  a  great  workman,  and  did  his  best 
not  to  get  drunk,  because,  when  he  had  saved 
forty  rupees,  Unda  was  to  steal  everything  that 
she  could  find  in  Janki's  house  and  run  with 
Kundoo  to  a  land  where  there  were  no  mines, 
and  every  one  kept  three  fat  bullocks  and  a 
milch-buffalo.  While  this  scheme  ripened  it  was 
his  custom  to  drop  in  upon  Janki  and  worry  him 
about  the  oil  savings.  Unda  sat  in  a  corner  and 
nodded  approval.  On  the  night  when  Kundoo 
had  quoted  that  objectionable  proverb  about 
weavers,  Janki  grew  angry. 

"Listen,  you  pig,"  said  he,  "blind  I  am,  and 
old  I  am,  but,  before  ever  you  were  born,  I  was 
grey  among  the  coal.  Even  in  the  days  when 
the  Twenty-Two  khad  was  unsunk  and  there 
were  not  two  thousand  men  here,  I  was  known 
to  have  all  knowledge  of  the  pits.  What  khad 
is  there  that  I  do  not  know,  from  the  bottom  of 
the  shaft  to  the  end  of  the  last  drive  ?  Is  it  the 
Baromba  khad,  the  oldest,  or  the  Twenty-Two 
where  Tibu's  gallery  runs  up  to  Number  Five?" 

"Hear  the  old  fool  talk!"  said  Kundoo,  nod- 
ding to  Unda.  "No  gallery  of  Twenty-Two 
will  cut  into  Five  before  the  end  of  the  Rains. 


At  Twenty-Two  83 

We  have  a  month's  solid  coal  before  us.     The 
Babuji  says  so." 

"Babuji!  Pigji!  Dogji!  What  do  these  fat 
6lugs  from  Calcutta  know  ?  He  draws  and  draws 
and  draws,  and  talks  and  talks  and  talks,  and  his 
maps  are  all  wrong.  1,  Janki,  know  that  this  is 
so.  When  a  man  has  been  shut  up  in  the  dark 
for  thirty  years,  God  gives  him  knowledge.  The 
old  gallery  that  Tibu's  gang  made  is  not  six  feet 
from  Number  Five." 

"Without  doubt  God  gives  the  blind  knowl- 
edge," said  Kundoo,  with  a  look  at  Unda.  "  Let 
it  be  as  you  say.  I,  for  my  part,  do  not  know 
where  lies  the  gallery  of  Tibu's  gang,  but  /  am 
not  a  withered  monkey  who  needs  oil  to  grease 
his  joints  with." 

Kundoo  swung  out  of  the  hut  laughing,  and 
Unda  giggled.  Janki  turned  his  sightless  eyes 
toward  his  wife  and  swore.  "1  have  land,  and 
I  have  sold  a  great  deal  of  lamp-oil,"  mused 
Janki;  "but  I  was  a  fool  to  marry  this  child." 

A  week  later  the  Rains  set  in  with  a  venge- 
ance, and  the  gangs  paddled  about  in  coal-slush 
at  the  pit-banks.  Then  the  big  mine-pumps 
were  made  ready,  and  the  Manager  of  the  Col- 
liery ploughed  through  the  wet  toward  the  Tara- 
chunda  River  swelling  between  its  soppy  banks. 
"Lord  send  that  this  beastly  beck  doesn't  mis- 
behave," said  the  Manager,  piously,  and  he  went 


84  At  Twenty-Two 

to  take  counsel  with  his  Assistant  about  the 
pumps. 

But  the  Tarachunda  misbehaved  very  much  in- 
deed. After  a  fall  of  three  inches  of  rain  in  an 
hour  it  was  obliged  to  do  something.  It  topped 
its  bank  and  joined  the  flood  water  that  was 
hemmed  between  two  low  hills  just  where  the 
embankment  of  the  Colliery  main  line  crossed. 
When  a  large  part  of  a  rain-fed  river,  and  a  few 
acres  of  flood-water,  made  a  dead  set  for  a  nine- 
foot  culvert,  the  culvert  may  spout  its  finest,  but 
the  water  cannot  all  get  out.  The  Manager 
pranced  upon  one  leg  with  excitement,  and  his 
language  was  improper. 

He  had  reason  to  swear,  because  he  knew  that 
one  inch  of  water  on  land  meant  a  pressure  of 
one  hundred  tons  to  the  acre;  and  here  were 
about  five  feet  of  water  forming,  behind  the  rail- 
way embankment,  over  the  shallower  workings 
of  Twenty-Two.  You  must  understand  that,  in  a 
coal-mine,  the  coal  nearest  the  surface  is  worked 
first  from  the  central  shaft.  That  is  to  say,  the 
miners  may  clear  out  the  stuff  to  within  ten, 
twenty,  or  thirty  feet  of  the  surface,  and,  when 
all  is  worked  out,  leave  only  a  skin  of  earth  up- 
held by  some  few  pillars  of  coal.  In  a  deep  mine 
where  they  know  that  they  have  any  amount  of 
material  at  hand,  men  prefer  to  get  all  their  min- 
eral out  at  one  shaft,  rather  than  make  a  number 


^t  Twenty-Two  85 

of  little  holes  to  tap  the  comparatively  unimpor- 
tant surface-coal. 

And  the  Manager  watched  the  flood. 

The  culvert  spouted  a  nine-foot  gush;  but  the 
water  still  formed,  and  word  was  sent  to  clear 
the  men  out  of  Twenty-Two.  The  cages  came 
up  crammed  and  crammed  again  with  the  men 
nearest  the  pit-eye,  as  they  call  the  place  where 
you  can  see  daylight  from  the  bottom  of  the 
main  shaft.  All  away  and  away  up  the  long 
black  galleries  the  flare-lamps  were  winking  and 
dancing  like  so  many  fireflies,  and  the  men  and 
the  women  waited  for  the  clanking,  rattling, 
thundering  cages  to  come  down  and  fly  up  again. 
But  the  outworkings  were  very  far  off,  and  word 
could  not  be  passed  quickly,  though  the  heads 
of  the  gangs  and  the  Assistant  shouted  and  swore 
and  tramped  and  stumbled.  The  Manager  kept 
one  eye  on  the  great  troubled  pool  behind  the 
embankment,  and  prayed  that  the  culvert  would 
give  way  and  let  the  water  through  in  time. 
With  the  other  eye  he  watched  the  cages  come 
up  and  saw  the  headmen  counting  the  roll  of  the 
gangs.  With  all  his  heart  and  soul  he  swore 
at  the  winder  who  controlled  the  iron  drum  that 
wound  up  the  wire  rope  on  which  hung  the 
cages. 

In  a  little  time  there  was  a  down-draw  in  the 
water  behind  the  embankment — a  sucking  whirl- 


86  ^t  Twenty-Two 

pool,  all  yellow  and  yeasty.  The  water  had 
smashed  through  the  skin  of  the  earth  and  was 
pouring  into  the  old  shallow  workings  of  Twenty- 
Two. 

Deep  down  below,  a  rush  of  black  water 
caught  the  last  gang  waiting  for  the  cage,  and  as 
they  clambered  in,  the  whirl  was  about  their 
waists.  The  cage  reached  the  pit-bank,  and  the 
Manager  called  the  roll.  The  gangs  were  all 
safe  except  Gang  Janki,  Gang  Mogul,  and  Gang 
Rahim,  eighteen  men,  with  perhaps  ten  basket- 
women  who  loaded  the  coal  into  the  little  iron 
carriages  that  ran  on  the  tramways  of  the  main 
galleries.  These  gangs  were  in  the  out-work- 
ings, three-quarters  of  a  mile  away,  on  the  ex- 
treme fringe  of  the  mine.  Once  more  the  cage 
went  down,  but  with  only  two  English  men  in 
it,  and  dropped  into  a  swirling,  roaring  current 
that  had  almost  touched  the  roof  of  some  of  the 
lower  side-galleries.  One  of  the  wooden  balks 
with  which  they  had  propped  the  old  work- 
ings shot  past  on  the  current,  just  missing  the 
cage. 

"  if  we  don't  want  our  ribs  knocked  out,  we'd 
better  go,"  said  the  Manager.  "We  can't  even 
save  the  Company's  props." 

The  cage  drew  out  of  the  water  with  a  splash, 
and  a  few  minutes  later,  it  was  officially  reported 
that  there-were  at  least  ten  feet  of  water  in  the 


At  Twenty-Two  87 

pit's  eye.  Now  ten  feet  of  water  there  meant 
that  all  other  places  in  the  mine  were  flooded  ex- 
cept such  galleries  as  were  more  than  ten  feet 
above  the  level  of  the  bottom  of  the  shaft.  The 
deep  workings  would  be  full,  the  main  galleries 
would  be  full,  but  in  the  high  workings  reached 
by  inclines  from  the  main  roads,  there  would  be 
a  certain  amount  of  air  cut  off,  so  to  speak,  by 
the  water  and  squeezed  up  by  it.  The  little 
science-primers  explain  how  water  behaves  when 
you  pour  it  down  test-tubes.  The  flooding  of 
Twenty-Two  was  an  illustration  on  a  large 
scale. 

****** 

"By  the  Holy  Grove,  what  has  happened  to 
the  air!"  It  was  a  Sonthal  gangman  of  Gang 
Mogul  in  Number  Nine  gallery,  and  he  was  driv- 
ing a  six-foot  way  through  the  coal.  Then 
there  was  a  rush  from  the  other  galleries,  and 
Gang  Janki  and  Gang  Rahim  stumbled  up  with 
their  basket-women. 

"Water  has  come  in  the  mine,"  they  said, 
"  and  there  is  no  way  of  getting  out." 

"I  went  down,"  said  Janki — "  down  the  slope 
of  my  gallery,  and  1  felt  the  water," 

"There  has  been  no  water  in  the  cutting  in 
our  time,"  clamored  the  women.  "Why  can- 
not we  go  away .?" 


88  At  Twenty-Two 

"Be  silent!"  said  Janki.  "Long  ago,  when 
my  father  was  here,  water  came  to  Ten — no, 
Eleven — cutting,  and  there  was  great  trouble. 
Let  us  get  away  to  where  the  air  is  better." 

The  three  gangs  and  the  basket-women  left 
Number  Nine  gallery  and  went  further  up  Num- 
ber Sixteen.  At  one  turn  of  the  road  they  could 
see  the  pitchy  black  water  lapping  on  the  coal. 
It  had  touched  the  roof  of  a  gallery  that  they 
knew  well — a  gallery  where  they  used  to  smoke 
their  huqas  and  manage  their  flirtations.  Seeing 
this,  they  called  aloud  upon  their  Gods,  and  the 
Mehas,  who  are  thrice  bastered  Muhammadans, 
strove  to  recollect  the  name  of  the  Prophet. 
They  came  to  a  great  open  square  whence  nearly 
all  the  coal  had  been  extracted.  It  was  the  end 
of  the  out-workings,  and  the  end  of  the  mine. 

Far  away  down  the  gallery  a  small  pumping- 
engine.  used  for  keeping  dry  a  deep  working  and 
fed  with  steam  from  above,  was  throbbing  faith- 
fully.    They  heard  it  cease. 

"They  have  cut  off  the  steam,"  said  Kundoo, 
hopefully.  "  They  have  given  the  order  to  use 
all  the  steam  for  the  pit-bank  pumps.  They  will 
clear  out  the  water." 

"If  the  water  has  reached  the  smoking-gal- 
lery,"  said  Janki,  "  all  the  Company's  pumps  can 
do  nothing  for  three  days." 

"  It  is  very  hot,"  moaned  jasoda,   the  Meah 


At  Twenty-Two  89 

basket-woman.  "There  is  a  very  bad  air  here 
because  of  the  lamps." 

"Put  them  out,"  said  Janki;  "why  do  you 
want  lamps  ?  "  The  lamps  were  put  out  and  the 
company  sat  still  in  the  utter  dark.  Somebody 
rose  quietly  and  began  walking  over  the  coals. 
It  was  Janki,  who  was  touching  the  walls  with 
his  hands.  "Where  is  the  ledge.?"  he  mur- 
mured to  himself. 

"  Sit,  sit!  "  said  Kundoo.  "  If  we  die,  we  die. 
The  air  is  very  bad." 

But  Janki  still  stumbled  and  crept  and  tapped 
with  his  pick  upon  the  walls.  The  women  rose 
to  their  feet. 

"Stay  all  where  you  are.  Without  the  lamps 
you  cannot  see,  and  1 — I  am  always  seeing,"  said 
Janki.  Then  he  paused,  and  called  out:  "Oh, 
you  who  have  been  in  the  cutting  more  than  ten 
years,  what  is  the  name  of  this  open  place  }  I 
am  an  old  man  and  1  have  forgotten." 

"Bullia's  Room,"  answered  the  Sonthal,  who 
had  complained  of  the  vileness  of  the  air. 

"  Again,"  said  Janki. 

"  Bullia's  Room." 

"Then  I  have  found  it,"  said  Janki.  "The 
name  only  had  slipped  my  memory.  Tibu's 
gang's  gallery  is  here." 

"A  lie,"  said  Kundoo.  "There  have  been  no 
galleries  in  this  place  since  my  day." 


90  At  Twenty-Two 

"Three  paces  was  the  depth  of  the  ledge," 
muttered  Janki,  without  heeding — "and — oh,  my 
poor  bones! — I  have  found  it!  It  is  here,  up  this 
ledge.  Come  all  you,  one  by  one,  to  the  place  of 
my  voice,  and  I  will  count  you." 

There  was  a  rush  in  the  dark,  and  Janki  felt  the 
first  man's  face  hit  his  knees  as  the  Sonthai 
scrambled  up  the  ledge. 

"Who?"  cried  Janki. 

"  I,  Sunua  Manji." 

"Sit  you  down,"  said  Janki.     "Who  next?" 

One  by  one  the  women  and  the  men  crawled 
up  the  ledge  which  ran  along  one  side  of  "  Bul- 
lia's  Room."  Degraded  Muhammadan,  pig-eat- 
ing Musahr  and  wild  Sonthai,  Janki  ran  his  hand 
over  them  all. 

"Now  follow  after,"  said  he,  "catching  hold 
of  my  heel,  and  the  women  catching  the  men's 
clothes."  He  did  not  ask  whether  the  men  had 
brought  their  picks  with  them.  A  miner,  black 
or  white,  does  not  drop  his  pick.  One  by  one, 
Janki  leading,  they  crept  into  the  old  gallery — a 
six-foot  way  with  a  scant  four  feet  from  thill  to 
roof. 

"The  air  is  better  here,"  said  Jasoda.  They 
could  hear  her  heart  beating  in  thick,  sick  bumps. 

"Slowly,  slowly,"  said  Janki.  "I  am  an  old 
man,  and  I  forget  many  things.  This  is  Tibu's 
gallery,  but  where  are  the  four  bricks  where  they 


At  Twenty-Two  91 

used  to  put  their  huqa  fire  on  when  the  Sahibs 
never  saw  ?  Slowly,  slowly,  O  you  people  be- 
hind." 

They  heard  his  hands  disturbing  the  small  coal 
on  the  floor  of  the  gallery  and  then  a  dull  sound. 
"This  is  one  unbaked  brick,  and  this  is  another 
and  another.  Kundoo  is  a  young  man — let  him 
come  forward.  Put  a  knee  upon  this  brick  and 
strike  here.  When  Tibu's  gang  were  at  dinner 
on  the  last  day  before  the  good  coal  ended,  they 
heard  the  men  of  Five  on  the  other  side,  and  Five 
•worked  their  gallery  two  Sundays  later — or  it 
may  have  been  one.  Strike  there,  Kundoo,  but 
give  me  room  to  go  back." 

Kundoo,  doubting,  drove  the  pick,  but  the  first 
soft  crush  of  the  coal  was  a  call  to  him.  He  was 
fighting  for  his  life  and  for  Unda — pretty  little 
Unda  with  rings  on  all  her  toes — for  Unda  and 
the  forty  rupees.  The  women  sang  the  Song  of 
the  Pick — the  terrible,  slow,  swinging  melody 
with  the  muttered  chorus  that  repeats  the  sliding 
of  the  loosened  coal,  and,  to  each  cadence, 
Kundoo  smote  in  the  black  dark.  When  he 
could  do  no  more,  Sunua  Manji  took  the  pick, 
and  struck  for  his  life  and  his  wife,  and  his  vil- 
lage beyond  the  blue  hills  over  the  Tarachunda 
River.  An  hour  the  men  worked,  and  then  the 
women  cleared  away  the  coal. 

"It    is  farther   than   I  thought,"  said  Janki. 


92  At  Twenty-Two 

"The  air  is  very  bad;  but  strike,  Kundoc,  strike 
hard." 

For  the  fifth  time  Kundoo  took  up  the  pick 
as  the  Sonthal  crawled  back.  The  song  had 
scarcely  recommenced  when  it  was  broken  by  a 
yell  from  Kundoo  that  echoed  down  the  gallery: 
''Par  htia !  Par  hiia!  We  are  through,  we 
are  through!"  The  imprisoned  air  in  the  mine 
shot  through  the  opening,  and  the  women  at  the 
far  end  of  the  gallery  heard  the  water  rush 
through  the  pillars  of  "  Bullia's  Room"  and  roar 
against  the  ledge.  Having  fulfilled  the  law  under 
which  it  worked,  it  rose  no  farther.  The  women 
screamed  and  pressed  forward.  "  The  water  has 
come — we  shall  be  killed!     Let  us  go." 

Kundoo  crawled  through  the  gap  and  found 
himself  in  a  propped  gallery  by  the  simple  proc- 
ess of  hitting  his  head  against  a  beam. 

"Do  1  know  the  pits  or  do  I  not.?"  chuckled 
Janki.  "This  is  the  Number  Five;  go  you  out 
slowly,  giving  me  your  names.  Ho!  Rahim, 
count  your  gang!  Nov/iet  us  go  forward,  each 
catching  hold  of  the  other  as  before." 

They  formed  a  line  in  the  darkness  and  Janki 
led  them — for  a  pit-man  in  a  strange  pit  is  only 
one  degree  less  liable  to  err  than  an  ordinary 
mortal  underground  for  the  first  time.  At  last 
they  saw  a  flare-lamp,  and  Gangs  Janki,  Mogul, 
and  Rahim  of  Twenty-Two  stumbled  dazed  into 


At  Twenty-Two  93 

the  glare  of  the  draught-furnace  at  the  bottom 
of  Five;  Janki  feeling  his  way  and  the  rest  be- 
hind. 

"Water  has  come  into  Twenty -Two.  God 
knows  where  are  the  others.  I  have  brought 
these  men  from  Tibu's  gallery  in  our  cutting; 
making  connection  through  the  north  side  of 
the  gallery.  Take  us  to  the  cage,"  said  Janki 
Meah. 

4:  *  ¥  He  «  « 

At  the  pit-bank  of  Twenty-Two,  some  thou- 
sand people  clamored  and  wept  and  shouted. 
One  hundred  men  —  one  thousand  men  —  had 
been  drowned  in  the  cutting.  They  would  all 
go  to  their  homes  to-morrow.  Where  were 
their  men  .?  Little  Unda,  her  cloth  drenched  with 
the  rain,  stood  at  the  pit-mouth  calling  down  the 
shaft  for  Kundoo.  They  had  swung  the  cages 
clear  of  the  mouth,  and  her  only  answer  was  the 
murmur  of  the  flood  in  the  pit's  eye  two  hundred 
and  sixty  feet  below. 

"Look  after  that  woman!  She'll  chuck  her- 
self down  the  shaft  in  a  minute,"  shouted  the 
Manager. 

But  he  need  not  have  troubled;  Unda  was 
afraid  of  Death.  She  wanted  Kundoo.  The 
Assistant  was  watching  the  flood  and  seeing 
how  far  he  could  wade  into  it.     There  was  a  lull 


94  -^t  Tweiity-Two 

in  the  water,  and  the  whirlpool  had  slackened. 
The  mine  was  full,  and  the  people  at  the  pit- 
bank  howled. 

"My  faith,  we  shall  be  lucky  if  we  have  five 
hundred  hands  on  the  place  to-morrovC'!  "  said  the 
Manager.  "There's  some  chance  yet  of  running 
a  temporary  dam  across  that  water.  Shove  in 
anything — tubs  and  bullock-carts  if  you  haven't 
enough  bricks.  Make  them  work  now  if  they 
never  worked  before.  Hi!  you  gangers,  make 
them  work." 

Little  by  little  the  crowd  was  broken  into  de- 
tachments, and  pushed  toward  the  water  with 
promises  of  overtime.  The  dam-making  began, 
and  when  it  was  fairly  under  way,  the  Manager 
thought  that  the  hour  had  come  for  the  pumps. 
There  was  no  fresh  inrush  into  the  mine.  The 
tall,  red,  iron-clamped  pump-beam  rose  and  fell, 
and  the  pumps  snored  and  guttered  and  shrieked 
as  the  first  water  poured  out  of  the  pipe. 

"  We  must  run  her  all  to-night,"  said  the  Man- 
ager, wearily,  "  but  there's  no  hope  for  the  poor 
devils  down  below.  Look  here,  Gur  Sahai,  if 
you  are  proud  of  your  engines,  show  me  what 
they  can  do  now." 

Gur  Sahai  grinned  and  nodded,  with  his  right 
hand  upon  the  lever  and  an  oil-can  in  his  left. 
He  could  do  no  more  than  he  was  doing,  but  he 
could  keep  that  up  till  the  dawn.     Were  the 


At  Twenty-Two  95 

Company's  pumps  to  be  beaten  by  the  vagaries 
of  that  troublesome  Tarachunda  River  ?  Never, 
never!  And  the  pumps  sobbed  and  panted: 
"Never,  never!"  The  Manager  sat  in  the  shel- 
ter of  the  pit-bank  roofing,  trying  to  dry  him- 
self by  the  pump-boiler  fire,  and,  in  the  dreary 
dusk,  he  saw  the  crowds  on  the  dam  scatter  and 
fly. 

"Thafs  the  end,"  he  groaned.  " 'Twill  take 
us  six  weeks  to  persuade  'em  that  we  haven't 
tried  to  drown  their  mates  on  purpose.  Oh,  for 
a  decent,  rational  Geordie!  " 

But  the  flight  had  no  panic  in  it.  Men  had 
run  over  from  Five  with  astounding  news,  and 
the  foremen  could  not  hold  their  gangs  together. 
Presently,  surrounded  by  a  clamorous  crew, 
Gangs  Rahim,  Mogul,  and  Janki,  and  ten  basket- 
women,  walked  up  to  report  themselves,  and 
pretty  little  Unda  stole  away  to  Janki's  hut  to 
prepare  his  evening  meal. 

"Alone  I  found  the  way,"  explained  Janki 
Meah,  "and  now  will  the  Company  give  me 
pension.?" 

The  simple  pit-folk  shouted  and  leaped  and 
went  back  to  the  dam,  reassured  in  their  old  be- 
lief that,  whatever  happened,  so  great  was  the 
power  of  the  Company  whose  salt  they  ate, 
none  of  them  could  be  killed.  But  Gur  Sahai 
only  bared  his  white  teeth  and  kept  his  hand 


96  At  Twenty-Two 

upon  the  lever  and  proved  his  pumps  to  the  ut- 
termost. 


"I  say,"  said  the  Assistant  to  the  Manager,  a 
week  later,  "do  you  recollect  Germinal  ? " 

"Yes.  'Queer  thing.  1  thought  of  it  in  the 
cage  v^hen  that  balk  went  by.     Why  }  " 

"Oh,  this  business  seems  to  be  Germinal  up- 
side down.  Janki  was  in  my  veranda  all  this 
morning,  telling  me  that  Kundoo  had  eloped 
with  his  wife — Unda  or  Anda,  1  think  her  name 
was." 

"Hillo!  And  those  were  the  cattle  that  you 
risked  your  life  to  clear  out  of  Twenty-Two!  " 

"No — 1  was  thinking  of  the  Company's  props, 
not  the  Company's  men." 

"  Sounds  better  to  say  so  now;  but  1  don't  be- 
lieve you,  old  fellow." 


IN  FLOOD  TIME 


IN  FLOOD  TIME 

Tweed  said  tae  Till : 

"What  gars  ye  rin  sae  Still?" 

Till  said  tae  Tweed  : 

«  Though  ye  rin  wi'  speed 

An'  I  rin  slaw — 

Yet  where  ye  droon  ae  man 

I  droon  twa." 

THERE  is  no  getting  over  the  river  to-night, 
Sahib.  They  say  that  a  builocl^-cart  has 
been  washed  down  already,  and  the  ekka  that 
went  over  a  half  hour  before  you  came,  has  not 
yet  reached  the  far  side.  Is  the  Sahib  in  haste "? 
I  will  drive  the  ford-elephant  in  to  show  him. 
Ohe,  mahout  there  in  the  shed!  Bring  out  Ram 
Pershad,  and  if  he  will  face  the  current,  good. 
An  elephant  never  lies,  Sahib,  and  Ram  Pershad 
is  separated  from  his  friend  Kala  Nag.  He,  too, 
wishes  to  cross  to  the  far  side.  Well  done! 
Well  done!  my  King!  Go  half  way  across, 
mahotitji,  and  see  what  the  river  says.  Well 
done,  Ram  Pershad!  Pearl  among  elephants,  go 
into  the  river!  Hit  him  on  the  head,  fool!  Was 
the  goad  made  only  to  scratch  thy  own  fat  back 
with,  bastard?    Strike!    Strike!    What  are  the 

99 


100  In  Flood  Time 

boulders  to  thee,  Ram  Pershad,  my  Rustum,  my 
mountain  of  strength  ?    Go  in!    Go  in! 

No,  Sahib!  It  is  useless.  You  can  hear  him 
trumpet.  He  is  telling  Kala  Nag  that  he  cannot 
come  over.  See!  He  has  swung  round  and  is 
shaking  his  head.  He  is  no  fool.  He  knows 
what  the  Barhwi  means  when  it  is  angry.  Aha! 
Indeed,  thou  art  no  fool,  my  child!  Salaam, 
Ram  Pershad,  Bahadur!  Take  him  under  the 
trees,  mahout,  and  see  that  he  gets  his  spices. 
Well  done,  thou  chiefest  among  tuskers.  Salaam 
to  the  Sirkar  and  go  to  sleep. 

What  is  to  be  done  ?  The  Sahib  must  wait  till 
the  river  goes  down.  It  will  shrink  to-morrow 
morning,  if  God  pleases,  or  the  day  after  at  the 
latest.  Now  why  does  the  Sahib  get  so  angry? 
I  am  his  servant.  Before  God,  /  did  not  create 
this  stream!  What  can  I  do?  My  hut  and  all 
that  is  therein  is  at  the  service  of  the  Sahib,  and 
it  is  beginning  to  rain.  Come  away,  my  Lord. 
How  will  the  river  go  down  for  your  throwing 
abuse  at  it  ?  In  the  old  days  the  English  people 
were  not  thus.  The  fire-carriage  has  made  them 
soft.  In  the  old  days,  when  they  drave  behind 
horses  by  day  or  by  night,  they  said  naught  if  a 
river  barred  the  way,  or  a  carriage  sat  down  in 
the  mud.  It  was  the  will  of  God — not  like  a 
fire-carriage  which  goes  and  goes  and  goes,  and 
would  go  though  all  the  devils  in  the  land  hung 


In  Flood  Time  loi 

on  to  its  tail.  The  fire-carriage  hath  spoiled  the 
English  people.  After  all,  what  is  a  day  lost,  or, 
for  that  matter,  what  are  two  days.?  Is  the 
Sahib  going  to  his  own  wedding,  that  he  is  so 
mad  with  haste?  Ho!  Ho!  Ho!  I  am  an  old 
man  and  see  few  Sahibs.  Forgive  me  if  I  have 
forgotten  the  respect  that  is  due  to  them.  The 
Sahib  is  not  angry  } 

His  own  wedding!  Ho!  Ho!  Ho!  The 
mind  of  an  old  man  is  like  the  ntiiiiah-tree. 
Fruit,  bud,  blossom,  and  the  dead  leaves  of  all 
the  years  of  the  past  flourish  together.  Old  and 
new  and  that  which  is  gone  out  of  remembrance, 
all  three  are  there!  Sit  on  the  bedstead.  Sahib, 
and  drink  milk.  Or— would  the  Sahib  in  truth 
care  to  drink  my  tobacco  ?  It  is  good.  It  is  the 
tobacco  of  Nuklao.  My  son,  who  is  in  service 
there  sent  it  to  me.  Drink,  then,  Sahib,  if  you 
know  how  to  handle  the  tube.  The  Sahib  takes 
it  like  a  Musalman.  Wah!  Wah!  Where  did 
he  learn  that.?  His  own  wedding!  Ho!  Ho! 
Ho!  The  Sahib  says  that  there  is  no  wedding 
in  the  matter  at  all.?  Now  is  it  likely  that  the 
Sahib  would  speak  true  talk  to  me  who  am  only 
a  black  man  ?  Small  wonder,  then,  that  he  is  in 
haste.  Thirty  years  have  I  beaten  the  gong  at 
this  ford,  but  never  have  I  seen  a  Sahib  in  such 
haste.  Thirty  years.  Sahib!  That  is  a  very  long 
time.     Thirty  years  ago  this  ford  was  on  the 


102  In  Flood  Time 

track  of  the  hiinjaras,  and  I  have  seen  two  thou- 
sand pack-bullocks  cross  in  one  night.  Now  the 
rail  has  come,  and  the  fire-carriage  says  biii-hiiy- 
bu{,  and  a  hundred  lakhs  of  maunds  slide  across 
that  big  bridge.  It  is  very  wonderful;  but  the 
ford  is  lonely  now  that  there  are  no  bunjaras  to 
camp  under  the  trees. 

Nay,  do  not  trouble  to  look  at  the  sky  without. 
It  will  rain  till  the  dawn.  Listen!  The  boulders 
are  talking  to-night  in  the  bed  of  the  river.  Hear 
them!  They  would  be  husking  your  bones.  Sa- 
hib, had  you  tried  to  cross.  See,  I  will  shut  the 
door  and  no  rain  can  enter.  Wahi!  Ahi!  Ugh  ! 
Thirty  years  on  the  banks  of  the  ford!  An  old 
man  am  I  and — where  is  the  oil  for  the  lamp  ? 

****** 

Your  pardon,  but,  because  of  my  years,  I  sleep 
no  sounder  than  a  dog;  and  you  moved  to  the 
door.  Look  then,  Sahib.  Look  and  listen.  A 
full  half  kos  from  bank  to  bank  is  the  stream 
now — you  can  see  it  under  the  stars — and  there 
are  ten  feet  of  water  therein.  It  will  not  shrink 
because  of  the  anger  in  your  eyes,  and  it  will  not 
be  quiet  on  account  of  your  curses.  Which  is 
louder,  Sahib — your  voice  or  the  voice  of  the 
river  }  Call  to  it — perhaps  it  will  be  ashamed. 
Lie  down  and  sleep  afresh,  Sahib.  I  know  the 
anger  of  the  Barhwi  when  there  has  fallen  rain 


In  Flood  Time  105 

in  the  foot-hills.  I  swam  the  flood,  once,  on  a 
night  tenfold  worse  than  this,  and  by  the  Favor 
of  God  I  was  released  from  Death  when  I  had 
come  to  the  very  gates  thereof. 

May  I  tell  the  tale?  Very  good  talk.  I  will 
fill  the  pipe  anew. 

Thirty  years  ago  it  was,  when  I  was  a  young 
man  and  had  but  newly  come  to  the  foid.  I  was 
strong  then,  and  the  bunjaras  had  no  doubt  when 
I  said  "this  ford  is  clear."  I  have  toiled  all  night 
up  to  my  shoulder-blades  in  running  water  amid 
a  hundred  bullocks  mad  with  fear,  and  have 
brought  them  across  losing  not  a  hoof.  When 
all  was  done  I  fetched  the  shivering  men,  and 
they  gave  me  for  reward  the  pick  of  their  cattle 
— the  bell-bullock  of  the  drove.  So  great  was 
the  honor  in  which  I  was  held!  But,  to-day 
when  the  rain  falls  and  the  river  rises,  1  creep  into 
my  hut  and  whimper  like  a  dog.  My  strength  is 
gone  from  me.  I  am  an  old  man  and  the  fire- 
carriage  has  made  the  ford  desolate.  They  were 
wont  to  call  me  the  Strong  One  of  the  Barhwi. 

Behold  my  face,  Sahib — it  is  the  face  of  a 
monkey.  And  my  arm — it  is  the  arm  of  an  old 
woman.  1  swear  to  you,  Sahib,  that  a  woman 
has  loved  this  face  and  has  rested  in  the  hollow 
of  this  arm.  Twenty  years  ago.  Sahib.  Believe 
me,  this  was  true  talk — twenty  years  ago. 

Come  to  the  door  and  look  across.    Can  you 


104  In  Flood  Time 

see  a  thin  fire  very  far  away  down  the  stream  ? 
That  is  the  temple-fire,  in  the  shrine  of  Hanuman, 
of  the  viHage  of  Pateera.  North,. under  the  big 
star,  is  the  village  itself,  but  it  is  hidden  by  a 
bend  of  the  river.  Is  that  far  to  swim.  Sahib  ? 
Would  you  take  off  your  clothes  and  adventure  ? 
Yet  I  swam  to  Pateera — not  once  but  many  times; 
and  there  are  muggers  in  the  river  too. 

Love  knows  no  caste;  else  why  should  I,  a 
Musalman  and  the  son  of  a  Musalman,  have 
sought  a  Hindu  woman — a  widow  of  the  Hindus 
— the  sister  of  the  headman  of  Pateera .?  But  it 
was  even  so.  They  of  the  headman's  household 
came  on  a  pilgrimage  to  Muttra  when  She  was 
but  newly  a  bride.  Silver  tires  were  upon  the 
wheels  of  the  bullock-cart,  and  silken  curtains 
hid  the  woman.  Sahib,  I  m.ade  no  haste  in  their 
conveyance,  for  the  wind  parted  the  curtains  and 
I  saw  Her.  When  they  returned  from  pilgrimage 
the  boy  that  was  Her  husband  had  died,  and  I 
saw  Her  again  in  the  bullock-cart.  By  God, 
these  Hindus  are  fools!  What  was  it  to  me 
whether  She  was  Hindu  or  Jain — scavenger, 
leper,  or  whole  }  I  would  have  married  Her  and 
made  Her  a  home  by  the  ford.  The  Seventh  of 
the  Nine  Bars  says  that  a  man  may  not  marry 
one  of  the  idolaters  }  Is  that  truth  ?  Both  Shiahs 
and  Sunnis  say  that  a  Musalman  may  not  marry 
one  of  the  idolaters  ?    Is  the  Sahib  a  priest,  then, 


In  Flood  Time  105 

that  he  knows  so  much  ?  I  will  tell  him  some- 
thing that  he  does  not  know.  There  is  neither 
Shiah  nor  Sunni,  forbidden  nor  idolater,  in  Love; 
and  the  Nine  Bars  are  but  nine  little  fagots  that 
the  flame  of  Love  utterly  burns  away.  In  truth, 
I  would  have  taken  Her;  but  what  could  I  do? 
The  headman  would  have  sent  his  men  to  break 
my  head  with  staves.  I  am  not — I  was  not — 
afraid  of  any  five  men;  but  against  half  a  village 
who  can  prevail? 

Therefore  it  was  my  custom,  these  things  hav- 
ing been  arranged  between  us  twain,  to  go  by 
night  to  the  village  of  Pateera,  and  there  we  met 
among  the  crops;  no  man  knowing  aught  of  the 
matter.  Behold,  now!  I  was  wont  to  cross  here, 
skirting  the  jungle  to  the  river  bend  where  the 
railway  bridge  is,  and  thence  across  the  elbow  of 
land  to  Pateera.  The  light  of  the  shrine  was  my 
guide  when  the  nights  were  dark.  That  jungle 
near  the  river  is  very  full  of  snakes— little  karaits 
that  sleep  on  the  sand — and  moreover.  Her  broth- 
ers would  have  slain  me  had  they  found  me  in 
the  crops.  But  none  knew — none  knew  save 
She  and  1 ;  and  the  blown  sand  of  the  river-bed 
covered  the  track  of  my  feet.  In  the  hot  months 
it  was  an  easy  thing  to  pass  from  the  ford  to 
Pateera,  and  in  the  first  Rains,  when  the  river 
rose  slowly,  it  was  an  easy  thing  also.  I  set  the 
strength  of  my  body  against  the  strength  of  the 


io6  In  Flood  Time 

stream,  and  nightly  I  ate  in  my  hut  here  and 
drank  at  Pateera  yonder.  She  had  said  that  one 
Hirnam  Singh,  a  thief,  had  sought  Her,  and  he 
was  of  a  village  up  the  river  but  on  the  same 
bank.  All  Sikhs  are  dogs,  and  they  have  refused 
in  their  folly  that  good  gift  of  God — tobacco.  I 
was  ready  to  destroy  Hirnam  Singh  that  ever  he 
had  come  nigh  Her;  and  the  more  because  he  had 
sworn  to  Her  that  She  had  a  lover,  and  that  he 
would  lie  in  wait  and  give  the  name  to  the  head- 
man unless  She  went  away  with  him.  What  curs 
are  these  Sikhs! 

After  that  news,  I  swam  always  with  a  little 
sharp  knife  in  my  belt,  and  evil  would  it  have 
been  for  a  man  had  he  stayed  me.  I  knew  not 
the  face  of  Hirnam  Singh,  but  I  would  have  killed 
any  who  came  between  me  and  Her. 

Upon  a  night  in  the  beginning  of  the  Rains,  I 
was  minded  to  go  across  to  Pateera,  albeit  the 
river  was  angry.  Now  the  nature  of  the  Barhwi 
is  this,  Sahib.  In  twenty  breaths  it  comes  down 
from  the  Hills,  a  wall  three  feet  high,  and  I  have 
seen  it,  between  the  lighting  of  a  fire  and  the 
cooking  of  a  chupatty,  grow  from  a  runnel  to  a 
sister  of  the  Jumna. 

When  I  left  this  bank  there  was  a  shoal  a  half 
mile  down,  and  1  made  shift  to  fetch  it  and  draw 
breath  there  ere  going  forward;  for  I  felt  the 
hands  of  the  river  heavy  upon  my  heels.     Yet 


In  Flood  Time  107 

what  will  a  young  man  not  do  for  Love's  sake? 
There  was  but  little  light  from  the  stars,  and  mid- 
way to  the  shoal  a  branch  of  the  stinking  deodar 
tree  brushed  my  mouth  as  1  swam.  That  was  a 
sign  of  heavy  rain  in  the  foot-hills  and  beyond, 
for  the  deodar  is  a  strong  tree,  not  easily  shaken 
from  the  hillsides.  I  made  haste,  the  river  aid- 
ing me,  but  ere  I  had  touched  the  shoal,  the  pulse 
of  the  stream  beat,  as  it  were,  within  me  and 
around,  and,  behold,  the  shoal  was  gone  and  I 
rode  high  on  the  crest  of  a  wave  that  ran  from 
bank  to  bank.  Has  the  Sahib  ever  been  cast  into 
much  water  that  fights  and  will  not  let  a  man  use 
his  limbs  ?  To  me,  my  head  upon  the  water,  it 
seemed  as  though  there  were  naught  but  water 
to  the  world's  end,  and  the  river  drave  me  with 
its  driftwood.  A  man  is  a  very  little  thing  in  the 
belly  of  a  flood.  And  this  flood,  though  1  knew 
it  not,  was  the  Great  Flood  about  which  men 
talk  still.  My  liver  was  dissolved  and  I  lay  like 
a  log  upon  my  back  in  the  fear  of  Death.  There 
were  living  things  in  the  water,  crying  and  howl- 
ing grievously — beasts  of  the  forest  and  cattle, 
and  once  the  voice  of  a  man  asking  for  help. 
But  the  rain  came  and  lashed  the  water  white, 
and  1  heard  no  more  save  the  roar  of  the  boulders 
below  and  the  roar  of  the  rain  above.  Thus  I 
was  whirled  down-stream,  wrestling  for  the 
breath  in  me.     It  is  very  hard  to  die  when  one  is 


io8  In  Flood  Time 

young.  Can  the  Sahib,  standing  here,  see  the 
railway  bridge  ?  Look,  there  are  the  Hghts  of 
the  mail-train  going  to  Peshawur!  The  bridge  is 
now  twenty  feet  above  the  river,  but  upon  that 
night  the  water  was  roaring  against  the  lattice- 
work and  against  the  lattice  came  I  feet  first. 
But  much  driftwood  was  piled  there  and  upon 
the  piers,  and  I  took  no  great  hurt.  Only  the 
river  pressed  me  as  a  strong  man  presses  a 
weaker.  Scarcely  could  I  take  hold  of  the  lattice- 
work and  crawl  to  the  upper  boom.  Sahib,  the 
water  was  foaming  across  the  rails  a  foot  deep! 
Judge  therefore  what  manner  of  flood  it  must 
have  been.  I  could  not  hear.  1  could  not  see. 
I  could  but  lie  on  the  boom  and  pant  for  breath. 
After  a  while  the  rain  ceased  and  there  came 
out  in  the  sky  certain  new  washed  stars,  and  by 
their  light  1  saw  that  there  was  no  end  to  the 
black  water  as  far  as  the  eye  could  travel,  and 
the  water  had  risen  upon  the  lails.  There  were 
dead  beasts  in  the  driftwood  on  the  piers,  and 
others  caught  by  the  neck  in  the  lattice-work, 
and  others  not  yet  drowned  who  strove  to  find  a 
foothold  on  the  lattice-work — buffaloes  and  kine, 
and  wild  pig,  and  deer  one  or  two,  and  snakes 
and  jackals  past  all  counting.  Their  bodies  were 
black  upon  the  left  side  of  the  bridge,  but  the 
smaller  of  them  were  forced  through  the  lattice- 
work and  whirled  down-stream. 


In  Flood  Time  109 

Thereafter  the  stars  died  and  the  rain  came 
down  afresh  and  the  river  rose  yet  more,  and  I 
felt  the  bridge  begin  to  stir  under  me  as  a  man 
stirs  in  his  sleep  ere  he  wakes.  But  I  was  not 
afraid,  Sahib.  I  swear  to  you  that  I  was  not 
afraid,  though  I  had  no  power  in  my  limbs.  I 
knew  that  I  should  not  die  till  I  had  seen  Her 
once  more.  But  I  was  very  cold,  and  I  felt  that 
the  bridge  must  go. 

There  was  a  trembling  in  the  water,  such  a 
trembling  as  goes  before  the  coming  of  a  great 
wave,  and  the  bridge  lifted  its  flank  to  the  rush 
of  that  coming  so  that  the  right  lattice  dipped 
under  water  and  the  left  rose  clear.  On  my 
beard,  Sahib,  I  am  speaking  God's  truth!  Asa 
Mirzapore  stone-boat  careens  to  the  wind,  so  the 
Barhwi  Bridge  turned.  Thus  and  in  no  other 
manner. 

I  slid  from  the  boom  into  deep  water,  and  be- 
hind me  came  the  wave  of  the  wrath  of  the  river. 
I  heard  its  voice  and  the  scream  of  the  middle 
part  of  the  bridge  as  it  moved  from  the  piers  and 
sank,  and  1  knew  no  more  till  I  rose  in  the 
middle  of  the  great  flood.  I  put  forth  my  hand 
to  swim,  and  lo!  it  fell  upon  the  knotted  hair  of 
the  head  of  a  man.  He  was  dead,  for  no  one 
but  I,  the  Strong  One  of  Barhwi,  could  have 
lived  in  that  race.  He  had  been  dead  full  two 
days,  for  he  rode  high,  wallowing,  and  was  an 


1 10  In  Flood  Time 

aid  to  me.  I  laughed  then,  knowing  for  a  surety 
that  I  should  yet  see  Her  and  take  no  harm;  and  I 
twisted  my  fingers  in  the  hair  of  the  man,  for  1 
was  far  spent,  and  together  we  went  down  the 
stream — he  the  dead  and  1  the  living.  Lacking 
that  help  1  should  have  sunk:  the  cold  was  in  my 
marrow,  and  my  flesh  was  ribbed  and  sodden  on 
my  bones.  But  he  had  no  fear  who  had  known 
the  uttermost  of  the  power  of  the  river;  and  I  let 
him  go  where  he  chose.  At  last  we  came  into 
the  power  of  a  side-current  that  set  to  the  right 
bank,  and  1  strove  with  my  feet  to  draw  with  it. 
But  the  dead  man  swung  heavily  in  the  whirl, 
rnd  I  feared  that  some  branch  had  struck  him 
and  that  he  would  sink.  The  tops  of  the  tama- 
risk brushed  my  knees,  so  1  knew  we  were  come 
into  flood-water  above  the  crops,  and,  after,  I  let 
down  my  legs  and  felt  bottom — the  ridge  of  a 
field — and,  after,  the  dead  man  stayed  upon  a 
knoll  under  a  fig-tree,  and  1  drew  my  body  from 
the  water  rejoicing. 

Does  the  Sahib  know  whither  the  backwash  of 
the  flood  had  borne  me  }  To  the  knoll  which  is 
the  eastern  boundary-mark  of  the  village  of 
Pateera!  No  other  place.  1  drew  the  dead  man 
up  on  the  grass  for  the  service  that  he  had  done 
me,  and  also  because  I  knew  not  whether  1 
should  need  him  again.  Then  I  went,  crying 
thrice  like  a  jackal,  to  the  appointed  place  which 


In  Flood  Time  ■  in 

was  near  the  byre  of  the  headman's  house.  But 
my  Love  was  already  there,  weeping.  She 
feared  that  the  flood  had  swept  my  hut  at  the 
Barhwi  Ford.  When  I  came  softly  through  the 
ankle-deep  water,  She  thought  it  was  a  ghost  and 
would  have  fled,  but  1  put  my  arms  round  Her, 
and— I  was  no  ghost  in  those  days,  though  I  am 
an  old  man  now.  Ho!  Ho!  Dried  corn,  in 
truth.     Maize  without  juice.     Ho!     Ho!^ 

I  told  Her  the  story  of  the  breaking  of  the 
Barhwi  Bridge,  and  She  said  that  I  was  greater 
than  mortal  man,  for  none  may  cross  the  Barhwi 
in  full  flood,  and  I  had  seen  what  never  man  had 
seen  before.  Hand  in  hand  we  went  to  the 
knoll  where  the  dead  lay,  and  I  showed  Her  by 
what  help  1  had  made  the  ford.  She  looked  also 
upon  the  body  under  the  stars,  for  the  latter  end 
of  the  night  was  clear,  and  hid  Her  face  in  Her 
hands,  crying:  "It  is  the  body  of  Hirnam 
Singh!"  I  said:  "The  swine  is  of  more  use 
dead  than  living,  my  Beloved,"  and  She  said: 
"Surely,  for  he  has  saved  the  dearest  life  in  the 
world  to  my  love.  None  the  less,  he  cannot 
stay  here,  for  that  would  bring  shame  upon  me." 
The  body  was  not  a  gunshot  from  her  door. 

Then  said  I,  rolling  the  body  with  my  hands: 
"God  hath  judged  between  us,  Hirnam  Singh, 

1  I    grieve   to  say  that  the   Warden  of  Barhwi  ford   is  re- 
sponsible here  for  two  very  bad  puns  in  the  vernacular. — R.  K. 


112  In  Flood  Time 

that  thy  blood  might  not  be  upon  my  head. 
Now,  whether  1  have  done  thee  a  wrong  in 
keeping  thee  from  the  burning-ghat,  do  thou  and 
the  crows  settle  together."  So  I  cast  him  adrift 
into  the  flood-water,  and  he  was  drawn  out  to 
the  open,  ever  wagging  his  thick  black  beard  like 
a  priest  under  the  pulpit-board.  And  I  saw  no 
more  of  Hirnam  Singh. 

Before  the  breaking  of  the  day  we  two  parted, 
and  I  moved  toward  such  of  the  jungle  as  was 
not  flooded.  With  the  full  light  1  saw  what  1  had 
done  in  the  darkness,  and  the  bones  of  my  body 
were  loosened  in  my  flesh,  for  there  ran  two  kos 
of  raging  water  between  the  village  of  Pateera 
and  the  trees  of  the  far  bank,  and,  in  the  middle, 
the  piers  of  the  Barhwi  Bridge  showed  like 
broken  teeth  in  the  jaw  of  an  old  man.  Nor  was 
there  any  life  upon  the  waters — neither  birds 
nor  boats,  but  only  an  army  of  drowned  things 
• — bullocks  and  horses  and  men — and  the  river 
was  redder  than  blood  from  the  clay  of  the  foot- 
hills. Never  had  I  seen  such  a  flood — never 
since  that  year  have  I  seen  the  like — and,  O 
Sahib,  no  man  living  had  done  what  1  had  done. 
There  was  no  return  for  me  that  day.  Not  for 
all  the  lands  of  the  headman  would  1  venture  a 
second  time  without  the  shield  of  darkness  that 
cloaks  danger.  I  went  a  Iws  up  the  river  to  the 
house  of  a  blacksmith,  saying  that  the  flood  had 


In  Flood  Time  113 

swept  me  from  my  hut,  and  they  gave  me  food. 
Seven  days  I  stayed  with  the  blacksmith,  till  a 
boat  came  and  I  returned  to  my  house.  There 
was  no  trace  of  wall,  or  roof,  or  floor — naught 
but  a  patch  of  slimy  mud.  Judge,  therefore, 
Sahib,  how  far  the  river  must  have  risen. 

It  was  written  that  I  should  not  die  either  in 
my  house,  or  in  the  heart  of  the  Barhwi,  or 
under  the  wreck  of  the  Barhwi  Bridge,  for  God 
sent  down  Hirnam  Singh  two  days  dead,  though 
I  know  not  how  the  man  died,  to  be  my  buoy 
and  support.  Hirnam  Singh  has  been  in  Hell 
these  twenty  years,  and  the  thought  of  that  night 
must  be  the  flower  of  his  torment. 

Listen,  Sahib!  The  river  has  changed  its  voice. 
It  is  going  to  sleep  before  the  dawn,  to  which 
there  is  yet  one  hour.  With  the  light  it  will 
come  down  afresh.  How  do  1  know  ?  Have  I 
been  here  thirty  years  without  knowing  the  voice 
of  the  river  as  a  father  knows  the  voice  of  his 
son  ?  Every  moment  it  is  talking  less  angrily.  I 
swear  that  there  will  be  no  danger  for  one  hour 
or,  perhaps,  two.  I  cannot  answer  for  the  morn- 
ing. Be  quick,  Sahib!  I  will  call  Ram  Pershad, 
and  he  will  not  turn  back  this  time.  Is  the 
paulin  tightly  corded  upon  all  the  baggage } 
Ohe,  mahout  with  a  mud  head,  the  elephant  for 
the  Sahib,  and  tell  them  on  the  far  side  that  there 
will  be  no  crossing  after  daylight. 


114  /«  Flood  Time 

Money  ?  Nay,  Sahib.  1  am  not  of  that  kind. 
No,  not  even  to  give  sweetmeats  to  the  baby- 
foli<.  My  house,  look  you,  is  empty,  and  I  am 
an  old  man. 

Dittf,  Ram  Pershad!  Dutt !  Dutt!  Dutt! 
Good  luck  go  with  you.  Sahib. 


THE  SENDING  OF  DANA  DA 


THE  SENDING  OF  DANA  DA 

When  the  Devil  rides  on  your  chest  remember  the  chamar. — 
Native  Proverb. 

ONCE  upon  a  time,  some  people  in  India 
made  a  new  Heaven  and  a  new  Earth  out 
of  broken  tea-cups,  a  missing  brooch  or  two, 
and  a  hair-brush.  These  were  hidden  under 
brushes,  or  stuffed  into  holes  in  the  hillside, 
and  an  entire  Civil  Service  of  subordinate  Gods 
used  to  fmd  or  mend  them  again;  and  every  one 
said:  "There  are  more  things  in  Heaven  and 
Earth  than  are  dreamed  of  in  our  philosophy." 
Several  other  things  happened  also,  but  the  Re- 
ligion never  seemed  to  get  much  beyond  its  first 
manifestations;  though  it  added  an  air-line  postal 
service,  and  orchestral  effects  in  order  to  keep 
abreast  of  the  times,  and  choke  off  competition. 
This  Religion  was  too  elastic  for  ordinary  use. 
It  stretched  itself  and  embraced  pieces  of  every- 
thing that  the  medicine-men  of  all  ages  have 
manufactured.  It  approved  of  and  stole  from 
Freemasonry;  looted  the  Latter-day  Rosicrucians 
of  half  their  pet  words;  took  any  fragments  of 
Egyptian  philosophy  that  it  found  in  the  Ency- 
eloper dia  Britannica ;  annexed  as  many  of  the 

i'7 


ii8  The  Sending  of  Dana  Da 

Vedas  as  had  been  translated  into  French  or  Eng- 
lish, and  talked  of  all  the  rest;  built  in  the  Ger- 
man versions  of  what  is  left  of  the  Zend  Avesta; 
encouraged  White,  Grey  and  Black  Magic,  in- 
cluding spiritualism,  palmistry,  fortune-telling  by 
cards,  hot  chestnuts,  double-kerneled  nuts  and 
tallow  droppings;  would  have  adopted  Voodoo 
and  Oboe  had  it  known  anything  about  them, 
and  showed  itself,  in  every  way,  one  of  the  most 
accommodating  arrangements  that  had  ever  been 
invented  since  the  birth  of  the  Sea, 

When  it  was  in  thorough  working  order,  with 
all  the  machinery,  down  to  the  subscriptions, 
complete,  Dana  Da  came  from  nowhere,  with 
nothing  in  his  hands,  and  wrote  a  chapter  in  its 
history  which  has  hitherto  been  unpublished. 
He  said  that  his  first  name  was  Dana,  and  his 
second  was  Da.  Now,  setting  aside  Dana  of  the 
New  York  Sun,  Dana  is  a  Bhil  name,  and  Da  fits 
no  native  of  India  unless  you  except  the  Bengali 
De  as  the  original  spelling.  Da  is  Lap  or  Finnish; 
and  Dana  Da  was  neither  Finn,  Chin,  Bhil,  Ben- 
gali, Lap,  Nair,  Gond,  Romaney,  Magh,  Bok- 
hariot,  Kurd,  Armenian,  Levantine,  Jew,  Per- 
sian, Punjabi,  Madrasi,  Parsee,  nor  anything  else 
known  to  ethnologists.  He  was  simply  Dana 
Da,  and  declined  to  give  further  information. 
For  the  sake  of  brevity  and  as  roughly  indicating 
his  origin,    he   was   called    "The  Native."     He 


The  Sending  of  Dana  Da  \  19 

might  have  been  the  original  Old  Man  of  the 
Mountains,  who  is  said  to  be  the  only  authorized 
head  of  the  Tea-cup  Creed.  Some  people  said 
that  he  was;  but  Dana  Da  used  to  smile  and  deny 
any  connection  with  the  cult;  explaining  that  he 
was  an  "Independent  Experimenter." 

As  1  have  said,  he  came  from  nowhere,  with 
his  hands  behind  his  back,  and  studied  the  Creed 
for  three  weeks;  sitting  at  the  feet  of  those  best 
competent  to  exp'ain  its  mysteries.  Then  he 
laughed  aloud  and  went  away,  but  the  laugh 
might  have  been  either  of  devotion  or  derision. 

When  he  returned  he  was  without  money,  but 
his  pride  was  unabated.  He  declared  that  he 
knew  more  about  the  Things  in  Heaven  and 
Earth  than  those  who  taught  him,  and  for  this 
contumacy  was  abandoned  altogether. 

His  next  appearance  in  public  life  was  at  a  big 
cantonment  in  Upper  India,  and  he  was  then  tell- 
ing fortunes  with  the  help  of  three  leaden  dice,  a 
very  dirty  old  cloth,  and  a  little  tin  box  of  opium 
pills.  He  told  better  fortunes  when  he  was  al- 
lowed half  a  bottle  of  whiskey;  but  the  things 
which  he  invented  on  the  opium  were  quite 
worth  the  money.  He  was  in  reduced  circum- 
stances. Among  other  people's  he  told  the  for- 
tune of  an  Englishman  who  had  once  been  inter- 
ested in  the  Simla  Creed,  but  who,  later  on,  had 
married  and  forgotten  all  his  old  knowledge  in 


120  The  Sending  of  Dana  Da 

the  study  of  babies  and  things.  The  Englishman 
allowed  Dana  Da  to  tell  a  fortune  for  charity's 
sake,  and  gave  him  five  rupees,  a  dinner,  and 
some  old  clothes.  When  he  had  eaten,  Dana  Da 
professed  gratitude,  and  asked  if  there  were  any- 
thing he  could  do  for  his  host — in  the  esoteric  line. 

"Is  there  any  one  that  you  love  .?"  said  Dana 
Da.  The  Englishman  loved  his  wife,  but  had  no 
desire  to  drag  her  name  into  the  conversation. 
He  therefore  shook  his  head. 

"Is  there  any  one  that  you  hate?"  said  Dana 
Da.  The  Englishman  said  that  there  were  sev- 
eral men  whom  he  hated  deeply. 

"Very  good,"  said  Dana  Da,  upon  whom  the 
whiskey  and  the  opium  were  beginning  to  tell. 
"Only  give  me  their  names,  and  I  will  despatch 
a  Sending  to  them  and  kill  them." 

Now  a  Sending  is  a  horrible  arrangement,  first 
invented,  they  say,  in  Iceland.  It  is  a  Thing  sent 
by  a  wizard,  and  may  take  any  form,  but,  most 
generally,  wanders  about  the  land  in  the  shape 
of  a  little  purple  cloud  till  it  finds  the  Sendee, 
and  him  it  kills  by  changing  into  the  form  of  a 
horse,  or  a  cat,  or  a  man  without  a  face.  It  is 
not  strictly  a  native  patent,  though  chamars  of 
the  skin  and  hide  castes  can,  if  irritated,  despatch 
a  Sending  which  sits  on  the  breast  of  their  enemy 
by  night  and  nearly  kills  him.  Very  few  natives 
care  to  irritate  chamars  for  this  reason. 


The  Sending  of  Dana  Da  121 

"Let  me  despatch  a  Sending,"  said  Dana  Da; 
"  I  am  nearly  dead  now  with  want,  and  drink, 
and  opium;  but  I  should  like  to  kill  a  man  before 
I  die.  I  can  send  a  Sending  anywhere  you 
choose,  and  in  any  form  except  in  the  shape  of  a 
man." 

The  Englishman  had  no  friends  that  he  wished 
to  kill,  but  partly  to  soothe  Dana  Da,  whose  eyes 
were  rolling,  and  partly  to  see  what  would  be 
done,  he  asked  whether  a  modified  Sending  could 
not  be  arranged  for — such  a  Sending  as  should 
make  a  man's  life  a  burden  to  him,  and  yet  do 
him  no  harm.  If  this  v/ere  possible,  he  notified 
his  willingness  to  give  Dana  Da  ten  rupees  for 
the  job. 

"I  am  not  what  I  was  once,"  said  Dana  Da, 
"and  I  must  take  the  money  because  I  am  poor. 
To  what  Englishman  shall  I  send  it  ?  " 

"Send  a  Sending  to  Lone  Sahib,"  said  the 
Englishman,  naming  a  man  who  had  been  most 
bitter  in  rebuking  him  for  his  apostasy  from  the 
Tea-cup  Creed.     Dana  Da  laughed  and  nodded. 

"I  could  have  chosen  no  better  man  myself," 
said  he.  "I  will  see  that  he  finds  the  Sending 
about  his  path  and  about  his  bed." 

He  lay  down  on  the  hearth-rug,  turned  up  the 
whites  of  his  eyes,  shivered  all  over  and  began 
to  snort.  This  was  Magic,  or  Opium,  or  the 
Sending,  or  all  three.     When  he  opened  his  eyes 


122 


The  Sending  of  Dana  Da 


he  vowed  that  the  Sending  had  started  upon  the 
war-path,  and  was  at  that  moment  flying  up  to 
the  town  where  Lone  Sahib  lives. 

"Give  me  my  ten  rupees,"  said  Dana  Da, 
wearily,  "  and  write  a  letter  to  Lone  Sahib,  telling 
him,  and  all  who  believe  with  him,  that  you  and 
a  friend  are  using  a  power  greater  than  theirs. 
They  will  see  that  you  are  speaking  the  truth." 

He  departed  unsteadily,  with  the  promise  of 
some  more  rupees  if  anything  came  of  the  Send- 
ing. 

The  Englishman  sent  a  letter  to  Lone  Sahib, 
couched  in  what  he  remembered  of  the  terminol- 
ogy of  the  Creed.  He  wrote:  "1  also,  in  the 
days  of  what  you  held  to  be  my  backsliding, 
have  obtained  Enlightenment,  and  with  Enlight- 
enment has  come  Power."  Then  he  grew  so 
deeply  mysterious  that  the  recipient  of  the  letter 
could  make  neither  head  nor  tail  of  it,  and  was 
proportionately  impressed;  for  he  fancied  that 
his  friend  had  become  a  "fifth-rounder."  When 
a  man  is  a  "fifth-rounder"  he  can  do  more  than 
Slade  and  Houdin  combined. 

Lone  Sahib  read  the  letter  in  five  different  fash- 
ions, and  was  beginning  a  sixth  interpretation 
when  his  bearer  dashed  in  with  the  news  that 
there  was  a  cat  on  the  bed.  Now  if  there  was 
one  thing  that  Lone  Sahib  hated  more  than  an- 
other, it  was  a  cat.     He  scolded  the  bearer  ior 


The  Sending  of  Dana  Da  123 

not  turning  it  out  of  the  house.  The  bearer  said 
that  he  was  afraid.  All  the  doors  of  the  bedroom 
had  been  shut  throughout  the  morning,  and  no 
real  cat  could  possibly  have  entered  the  room. 
He  would  prefer  not  to  meddle  with  the  creature. 

Lone  Sahib  entered  the  room  gingerly,  and 
there,  on  the  pillow  of  his  bed,  sprawled  and 
whimpered  a  wee  white  kitten;  not  a  jumpsome, 
frisky  little  beast,  but  a  slug-like  crawler  with  its 
eyes  barely  opened  and  its  paws  lacking  strength 
or  direction— a  kitten  that  ought  to  have  been  in 
a  basket  with  its  mamma.  Lone  Sahib  caught 
it  by  the  scurff  of  its  neck,  handed  it  over  to  the 
sweeper  to  be  drowned,  and  fined  the  bearer 
four  annas. 

That  evening,  as  he  ^as  reading  in  his  room, 
he  fancied  that  he  saw  something  movir;g  about 
on  the  hearth-rug,  outside  the  circle  of  l^ght  from 
his  reading-lamp.  When  the  thing  began  to 
myowl,  he  realized  that  it  was  a  kitten — a  wee 
white  kitten,  nearly  blind  and  very  miserable. 
He  was  seriously  angry,  and  spoke  bitterly  to  his 
bearer,  who  said  that  there  was  no  kitten  in  the 
room  when  he  brought  in  the  lamp,  and  real 
kittens  of  tender  age  generally  had  mother-cats 
in  attendance. 

"  If  the  Presence  will  go  out  into  the  veranda 
and  listen,"  said  the  bearer,  "he  will  hear  no 
cats.     How,   therefore,    can   the   kitten   on  the 


124  The  Sending  of  Dana  Da 

bed  and  the  kitten  on  the  hearth-rug  be  real  kit- 
tens?" 

Lone  Sahib  went  out  to  listen,  and  the  bearer 
followed  him,  but  there  was  no  sound  of  any  one 
mewing  for  her  children.     He   returned  to  his 
room,  having  hurled  the  kitten  down  the  hillside, 
and  wrote  out  the  incidents  of  the  day  for  the 
benefit  of  his  co-religionists.     Those  people  were 
so  absolutely  free  from  superstition  that  they  as- 
cribed anything  a  little  out  of  the  common  to 
Agencies.     As  it  was  their  business  to  know  all 
about  the  Agencies,  they  were  on  terms  of  al- 
most indecent  familiarity  with  Manifestations  of 
every  kind.     Their  letters  dropped  from  the  ceil- 
ing— unstamped — and  Spirits  used  to  squatter  up 
and  down  their  staircases  all  night;  but  they  had 
never  come   into    contact  with    kittens.     Lone 
Sahib  wrote  out  the  facts,  noting  the  hour  and 
the  minute,  as  every  Psychical  Observer  is  bound 
to  do,  and  appending  the  Englishman's  letter  be- 
cause it  was  the  most  mysterious  document  and 
might  have  had  a  bearing  upon  anything  in  this 
world  or  the   next.     An   outsider  would   have 
translated  all  the  tangle  thus:    "  Look  out!    You 
laughed  at  me  once,   and  now  1  am  going  to 
make  you  sit  up." 

Lone  Sahib's  co-religionists  found  that  meaning 
in  it;  but  their  translation  was  refined  and  full  of 
four-syllable  words.     They  held  a  sederunt,  and 


The  Sending  of  Dana  Da  125 

were  filled  with  tremulous  joy,  for,  in  spite  of 
their  familiarity  with  all  the  other  worlds  and 
cycles,  they  had  a  very  human  awe  of  things 
sent  from  Ghost-land,  They  met  in  Lone  Sahib's 
room  in  shrouded  and  sepulchral  gloom,  and 
their  conclave  was  broken  up  by  clinking  among 
the  photo-frames  on  the  mantelpiece.  A  wee 
wnite  kitten,  nearly  blind,  was  looping  and 
writhing  itself  between  the  clock  and  the  candle- 
sticks. That  stopped  all  investigations  or  doubt- 
ings.  Here  was  the  Manifestation  in  the  tlesh. 
It  was,  so  far  as  could  be  seen,  devoid  of  pur- 
pose, but  it  was  a  Manifestation  of  undoubted 
authenticity. 

They  drafted  a  Round  Robin  to  the  English- 
man, the  backslider  of  old  days,  adjuring  him  in 
the  interests  of  the  Creed  to  explain  whether 
there  was  any  connection  between  the  embodi- 
ment of  some  Egyptian  God  or  other  (I  have  for- 
gotten the  name)  and  his  communication.  They 
called  the  kitten  Ra,  or  Toth,  or  Tum,  or  some 
thing;  and  when  Lone  Sahib  confessed  that  the 
first  one  had,  at  his  most  misguided  instance,  been 
drowned  by  the  sweeper,  they  said  consolingly 
that  in  his  next  life  he  would  be  a  "bounder," 
and  not  even  a  "rounder"  of  the  lowest  grade. 
These  words  may  not  be  quite  correct,  but  they 
accurately  express  the  sense  of  the  house. 

When    the    Englishman  received  the   Round 


126  The  Sending  of  Dana  Da 

Robin — it  came  by  post — he  was  startled  and  be- 
wildered. He  sent  into  the  bazar  for  Dana  Da, 
who  read  the  letter  and  laughed.  "That  is  my 
Sending,"  said  he.  "I  told  you  I  would  work 
well.     Now  give  me  another  ten  rupees." 

"  But  what  in  the  world  is  this  gibberish  about 
Egyptian  Gods.?"  asked  the  Englishman. 

"  Cats,"  said  Dana  Da,  with  a  hiccough,  for  ne 
had  discovered  the  Englishman's  whiskey  bottle. 
"Cats,  and  cats,  and  cats!  Never  was  such  a 
Sending.  A  hundred  of  cats.  Now  give  me  ten 
more  rupees  and  write  as  I  dictate." 

Danna  Da's  letter  was  a  curiosity.  It  bore  the 
Englishman's  signature,  and  hinted  at  cats — at  a 
Sending  of  Cats.  The  mere  words  on  paper 
were  creepy  and  uncanny  to  behold. 

"What  have  you  done,  though?"  said  the 
Englishman;  "  I  am  as  much  in  the  dark  as  ever. 
Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  can  actually  send 
this  absurd  Sending  you  talk  about  ?" 

"Judge  for  yourself,"  said  Dana  Da.  "  What 
does  that  letter  mean  ?  In  a  little  time  they  will 
all  be  at  my  feet  and  yours,  and  I — O  Glory ! — 
will  be  drugged  or  drunk  all  day  long." 

Dana  Da  knew  his  people. 

When  a  man  who  hates  cats  wakes  up  in  the 
morning  and  finds  a  little  squirming  kitten  on  his 
breast,  or  puts  his  hands  into  his  ulster-pocket 
and    finds    a  little   half-dead   kitten  where  his 


The  Sending  of  Dana  Da  127 

gloves  should  be,  or  opens  his  trunk  and  finds 
a  vile  kitten  among  his  dress-shirts,  or  goes  for 
a  long  ride  with  his  mackintosh  strapped  on  his 
saddle-bow  and  shakes  a  little  squawling  kitten 
from  its  folds  when  he  opens  it,  or  goes  out  to 
dinner  and  finds  a  little  blind  kitten  under  his 
chair,  or  stays  at  home  and  finds  a  writhing  kit- 
ten under  the  quilt,  or  wriggling  among  his  boots, 
or  hanging,  head  downward,  in  his  tobacco-jar, 
or  being  mangled  by  his  terrier  in  the  veranda, — 
when  such  a  man  finds  one  kitten,  neither  more 
nor  less,  once  a  day  in  a  place  where  no  kitten 
rightly  could  or  should  be,  he  is  naturally  upset. 
When  he  dare  not  murder  his  daily  trove  be- 
cause he  believes  it  to  be  a  Manifestation,  an 
Emissary,  an  Embodiment,  and  half  a  dozen 
other  things  all  out  of  the  regular  course  of 
nature,  he  is  more  than  upset.  He  is  actually  dis- 
tressed. Some  of  Lone  Sahib's  co-religionists 
thought  that  he  was  a  highly  favored  individual; 
but  many  said  that  if  he  had  treated  the  first  kit- 
ten with  proper  respect — as  suited  a  Toth-Ra- 
Tum-Sennacherib  Embodiment — all  this  trouble 
would  have  been  averted.  They  compared  him 
to  the  Ancient  Mariner,  but  none  the  less  they 
were  proud  of  him  and  proud  of  the  Englishman 
who  had  sent  the  Manifestation.  They  did  not 
call  it  a  Sending  because  Icelandic  magic  was  not 
in  their  programme. 


128  The  Sending  of  Dana  Da 

After  sixteen  kittens,  that  is  to  say  after  one 
fortnight,  for  there  were  three  kittens  on  the  first 
day  to  impress  the  fact  of  the  Sending,  the  whole 
camp  was  uplifted  by  a  letter — it  came  flying 
through  a  window — from  the  Old  Man  of  the 
Mountains — the  Head  of  all  the  Creed — explain- 
ing the  Manifestation  in  the  most  beautiful  lan- 
guage and  soaking  up  all  the  credit  of  it  for  him- 
self. The  Englishman,  said  the  letter,  was  not 
there  at  all.  He  was  a  backslider  without  Power 
or  Asceticism,  who  couldn't  even  raise  a  table  by 
force  of  volition,  much  less  project  an  army  of 
kittens  through  space.  The  entire  arrangement, 
said  the  letter,  was  strictly  orthodox,  worked  and 
sanctioned  by  the  highest  Authorities  within  the 
pale  of  the  Creed.  There  was  great  joy  at  this, 
for  some  of  the  weaker  brethren  seeing  that  an 
outsider  who  had  been  working  on  independent 
lines  could  create  kittens,  whereas  their  own 
rulers  had  never  gone  beyond  crockery — and 
broken  at  best — were  showing  a  desire  to  break 
line  on  their  own  trail.  In  fact,  there  was  the 
promise  of  a  schism.  A  second  Round  Robin 
was  drafted  to  the  Englishman,  beginning:  "O 
Scoffer,"  and  ending  with  a  selection  of  curses 
from  the  Rites  of  Mizraim  and  Memphis  and  the 
Commination  of  Jugana,  who  was  a  "fifth- 
rounder,"  upon  whose  name  an  unstart  "third- 
rounder"  once  traded.     A  papal  excommunica- 


The  Sending  of  Dana  Da  129 

tion  is  a  billet-doux  compared  to  the  Ccmmina- 
tion  of  Jugana.  The  Englishman  had  been 
proved,  under  the  hand  and  seal  of  the  Old  Man 
of  the  Mountains,  to  have  appropriated  Virtue 
and  pretended  to  have  Power  which,  in  reality, 
belonged  only  to  the  Supreme  Head.  Naturally 
the  Round  Robin  did  not  spare  him. 

He  handed  the  letter  to  Dana  Da  to  translate 
into  decent  English.  The  effect  on  Dana  Da  was 
curious.  At  first  he  was  furiously  angry,  and 
then  he  laughed  for  five  minutes. 

"I  had  thought,"  he  said,  "that  they  would 
have  come  to  me.  In  another  week  I  would 
have  shown  that  I  sent  the  Sending,  and  they 
would  have  discrowned  the  Old  Man  of  the 
Mountains  who  has  sent  this  Sending  of  mine. 
Do  you  do  nothing.  The  time  has  come  for  me 
to  act.  Write  as  I  dictate,  and  I  will  put  them  to 
shame.     But  give  me  ten  more  rupees." 

At  Dana  Da's  dictation  the  Englishman  wrote 
nothing  less  than  a  formal  challenge  to  the  Old 
Man  of  the  Mountains.  It  wound  up:  "And  if 
this  Manifestation  be  from  your  hand,  then  let  it 
go  forward;  but  if  it  be  from  my  hand.  I  will 
that  the  Sending  shall  cease  in  two  days'  time. 
On  that  day  there  shall  be  twelve  kittens  and 
thenceforward  none  at  all.  The  people  shall 
judge  between  us."  This  was  signed  by  Dana 
Da,  who  added  pentacles  and  pentagrams,  and  a 


130  The  Sending  of  Dana  Da 

crux  ansaia,  and  half  a  dozen  swastikas,  and  a 
Triple  Tau  to  his  name,  just  to  show  that  he  was 
all  he  laid  claim  to  be. 

The  challenge  was  read  out  to  the  gentlemen 
and  ladies,  and  they  remembered  then  that  Dana 
Da  had  laughed  at  them  some  years  ago.  It  was 
officially  announced  that  the  Old  Man  of  the 
Mountains  would  treat  the  matter  with  contempt; 
Dana  Da  being  an  Independent  Investigator  with- 
out a  single  "round"  at  the  back  of  him.  But 
this  did  not  soothe  his  people.  They  wanted  to 
see  a  fight.  They  were  very  human  for  all  their 
spirituality.  Lone  Sahib,  who  was  really  being 
worn  out  with  kittens,  submitted  meekly  to  his 
fate.  He  felt  that  he  was  being  "kittened  to 
prove  the  power  of  Dana  Da,"  as  the  poet  says. 

When  the  stated  day  dawned,  the  shower  of 
kittens  began.  Some  were  white  and  some  were 
tabby,  and  all  were  about  the  same  loathsome 
age.  Three  were  on  his  hearth-rug,  three  in  his 
bath-room,  and  the  other  six  turned  up  at  inter- 
vals among  the  visitors  who  came  to  see  the 
prophecy  break  down.  Never  was  a  more  satis- 
factory Sending,  On  the  next  day  there  were  no 
kittens,  and  the  next  day  and  all  the  other  days 
were  kittenless  and  quiet.  The  people  murmured 
and  looked  to  the  Old  Man  of  the  Mountains  for 
an  explanation.  A  letter,  written  on  a  palm-leaf, 
dropped  from  the  ceiling,  but  every  one  except 


The  Sending  of  Dana  Da  131 

Lone  Sahib  felt  that  letters  were  not  what  the 
occasion  demanded.  There  should  have  been 
cats,  there  should  have  been  cats, — full-grown 
ones.  The  letter  proved  conclusively  that  there 
had  been  a  hitch  in  the  Psychic  Current  which, 
colliding  with  a  Dual  Identity,  had  interfered 
with  the  Percipient  Activity  all  along  the  main 
line.  The  kittens  were  still  going  on,  but  owing 
to  some  failure  in  the  Developing  Fluid,  they 
were  not  materialized.  The  air  was  thick  with 
letters  for  a  few  days  afterward.  Unseen  hands 
played  Gluck  and  Beethoven  on  finger-bowls  and 
clock-shades;  but  all  men  felt  that  Psychic  Life 
was  a  mockery  without  materialized  Kittens. 
Even  Lone  Sahib  shouted  with  the  majority  on 
this  head.  Dana  Da's  letters  were  very  insulting, 
and  if  he  had  then  offered  to  lead  a  new  depar- 
ture, there  is  no  knowing  what  might  not  have 
happened. 

But  Dana  Da  was  dying  of  whiskey  and  opium 
in  the  Englishman's  godown,  and  had  small  heart 
for  honors. 

"They  have  been  put  to  shame,"  said  he. 
"Never  was  such  a  Sending,     It  has  killed  me." 

"Nonsense,"  said  the  Englishman,  "you  are 
going  to  die,  Dana  Da,  and  that  sort  of  stuf 
must  be  left  behind.  I'll  admit  that  you  have 
made  some  queer  things  come  about.  Tell  me 
honestly,  now,  how  was  it  done?" 


i}2  The  Send/ Jig  of  Dana  Da 

"Give  me  ten  more  rupees,"  said  Dana  Da, 
faintly,  "and  if  1  die  before  I  spend  them,  bury 
them  with  me."  ■  The  silver  was  counted  out 
while  Dana  Da  was  fighting  with  Death.  His 
hand  closed  upon  the  money  and  he  smiled  a. 
grim  smile. 

"  Bend  low,"  he  whispered.  The  Englishman 
bent. 

' '  Bnnnia  —  Mission  -  school  —  expelled  —  box  - 
wallah  (peddler)  —  Ceylon  pearl-merchant — all 
mine  English  education — out-casted,  and  made 
up  name  Dana  Da — England  with  American 
thought-reading  man  and — and — you  gave  me 
ten  rupees  several  times — I  gave  the  Sahib's 
bearer  two-eight  a  month  for  cats — little,  little 
cats.  1  wrote,  and  he  put  them  about — very 
clever  man.  Very  few  kittens  now  in  the  ba^ar. 
Ask  Lone  Sahib's  sweeper's  wife." 

So  saying,  Dana  Da  gasped  and  passed  away 
into  a  land  where,  if  all  be  true,  there  are  no 
materializations  and  the  making  of  new  creeds  is 
discouraged. 

But  consider  the  gorgeous  simplicity  of  it  alll 


,1 
I: 


THE  CITY  WALL 


if 


ON  THE  CITY  WALL 

Then  she  let  them  down  by  a  cord  through  the  window ;  for 
her  house  was  upon  the  town-wall,  and  she  dwelt  upon  the 
wall. — Joshua  ii.  15. 

LALUN  is  a  member  of  the  most  ancient  pro- 
fession in  the  world.  Lilith  was  her  very- 
great-grandmamma,  and  that  was  before  the 
days  of  Eve  as  every  one  knows.  In  the  West, 
people  say  rude  things  about  Lalun's  profession, 
and  write  lectures  about  it,  and  distribute  the 
lectures  to  young  persons  in  order  that  Morality 
may  be  preserved.  In  the  East  where  the  pro- 
fession is  hereditary,  descending  from  mother  to 
daughter,  nobody  writes  lectures  or  takes  any 
notice;  and  that  is  a  distinct  proof  of  the  inability 
of  the  East  to  manage  its  own  affairs. 

Lalun's  real  husband,  for  even  ladies  of  Lalun's 
profession  in  the  East  must  have  husbands,  was 
a  big  jujube-tree.  Her  Mamma,  who  had  mar- 
ried a  fig-tree,  spent  ten  thousand  rupees  on 
Lalun's  wedding,  which  was  blessed  by  forty- 
seven  clergymen  of  Mamma's  church,  and  dis- 
tributed five  thousand  rupees  in  charity  to  the 
poor.  And  that  was  the  custom  of  the  land. 
The  advantages   of  having  a  jujube-tree  for  a 

135 


1^6  0)1  the  City  Wall 

husband  are  obvious.  You  cannot  hurt  his  feel- 
ings, and  he  looks  imposing. 

Lalun's  husband  stood  on  the  plain  outside  the 
City  walls,  and  Lalun's  house  was  upon  the  east 
wall  facing  the  river.  If  you  fell  from  the  broad 
window-seat  you  dropped  thirty  feet  sheer  into 
the  City  Ditch.  But  if  you  stayed  where  you 
should  and  looked  forth,  you  saw  all  the  cattle 
of  the  City  being  driven  down  to  water,  the 
students  of  the  Government  College  playing 
cricket,  the  high  grass  and  trees  that  fringed  the 
river-bank,  the  great  sand  bars  that  ribbed  the 
river,  the  red  tombs  of  dead  Emperors  beyond 
the  river,  and  very  far  away  through  the  blue 
heat-haze,  a  glint  of  the  snows  of  the  Himalayas. 

Wali  Dad  used  to  lie  in  the  window-seat  for 
hours  at  a  time  watching  this  view.  He  was  a 
young  Muhammadan  who  was  suffering  acutely 
from  education  of  the  English  variety  and  knew 
it.  His  father  had  sent  him  to  a  Mission-school 
to  get  wisdom,  and  Wali  Dad  had  absorbed  more 
than  ever  his  father  or  the  Missionaries  intended 
he  should.  When  his  father  died,  Wali  Dad  was 
independent  and  spent  two  years  experimenting 
with  the  creeds  of  the  Earth  and  reading  books 
that  are  of  no  use  to  anybody. 

After  he  had  made  an  unsuccessful  attempt  to 
enter  the  Roman  Catholic  Church  and  the  Pres- 
byterian fold  at  the  same  time  (the  Missionaries 


On  the  City  Wall  137 

found  him  out  and  called  him  names,  but  they 
did  not  understand  his  trouble),  he  discovered 
Lalun  on  the  City  wall  and  became  the  most  con- 
stant of  her  few  admirers.  He  possessed  a  head 
that  English  artists  at  home  would  rave  over  and 
paint  amid  impossible  surroundings — a  face  that 
female  novelists  would  use  with  delight  through 
nine  hundred  pages.  In  reality  he  was  only  a 
clean-bred  young  Muhammadan,  with  penciled 
eyebrows,  small-cut  nostrils,  little  feet  and 
hands,  and  a  very  tired  look  in  his  eyes.  By  vir- 
tue of  his  twenty-two  years  he  had  grown  a  neat 
black  beard  which  he  stroked  with  pride  and 
kept  delicately  scented.  His  life  seemed  to  be 
divided  between  borrowing  books  from  me  and 
making  love  to  Lalun  in  the  window-seat.  He 
composed  songs  about  her,  and  some  of  the 
songs  are  sung  to  this  day  in  the  City  from  the 
Street  of  the  Mutton-Butchers  to  the  Copper- 
Smiths'  ward. 

One  song,  the  prettiest  of  all,  says  that  the 
beauty  of  Lalun  was  so  great  that  it  troubled  the 
hearts  of  the  British  Government  and  caused 
them  to  lose  their  peace  of  mind.  That  is  the 
way  the  song  is  sung  in  the  streets;  but,  if  you 
examine  it  carefully  and  know  the  key  to  the  ex- 
planation, you  will  find  that  there  are  three  puns 
in  it— on  "beauty,"  "heart,"  and  "peace  of 
mind,"— so  that  it  runs:     "By  the  subtlety  of 


1^8  On  the  City  Wall 

Lalun  the  administration  of  the  Government  was 
troubled  and  it  lost  such  and  such  a  man." 
When  Wall  Dad  sings  that  song  his  eyes  glow 
like  hot  coals,  and  Lalun  leans  back  among  the 
cushions  and  throws  bunches  of  jasmine-buds  at 
Wali  Dad. 

But  first  it  is  necessary  to  explain  something 
about  the  Supreme  Government  which  is  above 
all  and  below  all  and  behind  all.  Gentlemen 
come  from  England,  spend  a  few  weeks  in  India, 
walk  round  this  great  Sphinx  of  the  Plains,  and 
write  books  upon  its  ways  and  its  works,  de- 
nouncing or  praising  it  as  their  own  ignorance 
prompts.  Consequently  all  the  world  knows 
hov/  the  Supreme  Government  conducts  itself. 
But  no  one,  not  even  the  Supreme  Government, 
knows  everything  about  the  administration  of  the 
Empire.  Year  by  year  England  sends  out  fresh 
drafts  for  the  first  fighting-line,  which  is  officially 
called  the  Indian  Civil  Service.  These  die,  or  kill 
themselves  by  overwork,  or  are  worried  to  death 
or  broken  in  health  and  hope  in  order  that  the 
land  may  be  protected  from  death  and  sickness, 
famine  and  war,  and  may  eventually  become 
capable  of  standing  alone.  It  will  never  stand 
alone,  but  the  idea  is  a  pretty  one,  and  men  are 
willing  to  die  for  it,  and  yearly  the  work  of  push- 
ing and  coaxing  and  scolding  and  petting  the 
country  into  good  living  goes  forward.     If  an 


On  the  City  Wall  139 

advance  be  made  all  credit  is  given  to  the  native, 
while  the  Englishmen  stand  back  and  v/ipe  their 
foreheads.  If  a  failure  occurs  the  Englishmen 
step  forv^'ard  and  take  the  blame.  Overmuch 
tenderness  of  this  kind  has  bred  a  strong  belief 
among  many  natives  that  the  native  is  capable  of 
administering  the  country,  and  many  devout 
Englishmen  believe  this  also,  because  the  theory 
is  stated  in  beautiful  English  with  all  the  latest 
political  color. 

There  be  other  men  who,  though  uneducated, 
see  visions  and  dream  dreams,  and  they,  too, 
hope  to  administer  the  country  in  their  own  way 
— that  is  to  say,  with  a  garnish  of  Red  Sauce. 
Such  men  must  exist  among  two  hundred  million 
people,  and,  if  they  are  not  attended  to,  may 
cause  trouble  and  even  break  the  great  idol  called 
Pax  Britannic,  which,  as  the  newspapers  say, 
lives  between  Peshawur  and  Cape  Comorin. 
Were  the  Day  of  Doom  to  dawn  to-morrow,  you 
would  find  the  Supreme  Government  "taking 
measures  to  allay  popular  excitement"  and  put- 
ting guards  upon  the  graveyards  that  the  Dead 
might  troop  forth  orderly.  The  youngest  Civil- 
ian would  arrest  Gabriel  on  his  own  responsibil- 
ity if  the  Archangel  could  not  produce  a  Deputy 
Commissioner's  permission  to  "make  music  or 
other  noises  "  as  the  license  says. 

Whence  it  is  easy  to  see  that  mere  men  of  the 


140  On  the  City  Wall 

flesh  who  would  create  a  tumult  must  fare  badly 
at  the  hands  of  the  Supreme  Government.  And 
they  do.  There  is  no  outward  sign  of  excite- 
ment; there  is  no  confusion;  there  is  no  knowl- 
edge. When  due  and  sufficient  reasons  have 
been  given,  weighed  and  approved,  the  machin- 
ery moves  forward,  and  the  dreamer  of  dreams 
and  the  seer  of  visions  is  gone  from  his  friends 
and  following.  He  enjoys  the  hospitality  of 
Government;  there  is  no  restriction  upon  his 
movements  within  certain  limits;  but  he  must 
not  confer  any  more  with  his  brother  dreamers. 
Once  in  every  six  months  the  Supreme  Govern- 
ment assures  itself  that  he  is  well  and  takes 
formal  acknowledgment  of  his  existence.  No  one 
protests  against  his  detention,  because  the  few 
people  who  know  about  it  are  in  deadly  fear  of 
seeming  to  know  him;  and  never  a  single  news- 
paper "takes  up  his  case"  or  organizes  demon- 
strations on  his  behalf,  because  the  newspapers 
of  India  have  got  behind  that  lying  proverb 
which  says  the  Pen  is  mightier  than,  the  Sword, 
and  can  walk  delicately. 

So  now  you  know  as  much  as  you  ought 
about  Wali  Dad,  the  educational  mixture,  and 
the  Supreme  Government. 

Lalun  has  not  yet  been  described.  She  would 
need,  so  Wali  Dad  says,  a  thousand  pens  of  gold 
and  ink  scented  with  musk.     She  has  been  vari- 


On  the  City  Wall  141 

ously  compared  to  the  Moon,  the  Dil  Sagar  Lake, 
a  spotted  quail,  a  gazelle,  the  Sun  on  the  Desert 
of  Kutch,  the  Dawn,  the  Stars,  and  the  young 
bamboo.  These  comparisons  imply  that  she  is 
beautiful  exceedingly  according  to  the  native 
standards,  which  are  practically  the  same  as  those 
of  the  West.  Her  eyes  are  black  and  her  hair  is 
black,  and  her  eyebrows  are  black  as  leeches; 
her  mouth  is  tiny  and  says  witty  things;  her 
hands  are  tiny  and  have  saved  much  money;  her 
feet  are  tiny  and  have  trodden  on  the  naked 
hearts  of  many  men.  But,  as  Wali  Dad  sings: 
"  Lalun  is  Lalun,  and  when  you  have  said  that, 
you  have  only  come  to  the  Beginnings  of  Knowl- 
edge." 

The  little  house  on  the  City  wall  was  just  big 
enough  to  hold  Lalun,  and  her  maid,  and  a  . 
pussy-cat  with  a  silver  collar.  A  big  pink  and 
blue  cut-glass  chandelier  hung  from  the  ceiling 
of  the  reception  room.  A  petty  Nawab  had 
given  Lalun  the  horror,  and  she  kept  it  for  polite- 
ness' sake.  The  floor  of  the  room  was  of  pol- 
ished chunam,  white  as  curds.  A  latticed  win- 
dow of  carved  wood  was  set  in  one  wall ;  there 
was  a  profusion  of  squabby  pluffy  cushions  and 
fat  carpets  everywhere,  and  Lalun's  silver  httqa, 
studded  with  turquoises,  had  a  special  little  car- 
pet all  to  its  shining  self.  Wali  Dad  was  nearly 
as  permanent  a  fixture  as  the  chandelier.     As  I 


142  On  the  City  Wall 

have  said,  he  lay  in  the  window-seat  and  medi- 
tated on  Life  and  Death  and  Lalun — specially 
Lalun.  The  feet  of  the  young  men  of  the  City 
tended  to  her  doorways  and  then — retired,  for 
Lalun  was  a  particular  maiden,  slow  of  speech, 
reserved  of  mind,  and  not  in  the  least  inclined  to 
orgies  which  were  nearly  certain  to  end  in  strife. 
"If  1  am  of  no  value,  I  am  unworthy  of  this 
honor,"  said  Lalun.  "If  I  am  of  value,  they  are 
unworthy  of  Me."  And  that  was  a  crooked 
sentence. 

In  the  long  hot  nights  of  latter  April  and  May 
all  the  City  seemed  to  assemble  in  Lalun's  little 
white  room  to  smoke  and  to  talk.  Shiahs  of  the 
grimmest  and  most  uncompromising  persuasion; 
Sufis  who  had  lost  all  belief  in  the  Prophet  and 
retained  but  little  in  God;  wandering  Hindu 
priests  passing  southward  on  their  way  to  the 
Central  India  fairs  and  other  affairs;  Pundits  in 
black  gowns,  with  spectacles  on  their  noses  and 
undigested  wisdom  in  their  insides;  bearded 
headmen  of  the  wards;  Sikhs  with  all  the  details 
of  the  latest  ecclesiastical  scandal  in  the  Golden 
Temple;  red-eyed  priests  from  beyond  the  Bor- 
der, looking  like  trapped  wolves  and  talking  like 
ravens;  M.A.'s  of  the  University,  very  superior 
and  very  voluble — all  these  people  and  more  also 
you  might  find  in  the  white  room.  Wali  Dad 
lay  in  the  window-seat  and  listened  to  the  talk. 


On  the  City  Wall  \A3 

"It  is  Lalun's  salon,"  said  Wall  Dad  to  me, 
"  and  it  is  electic— ^is  not  that  the  word  ?  Out- 
side of  a  Freemason's  Lodge  I  have  never  seen 
such  gatherings.  There  I  dined  once  with  a  Jew 
— a  Yahoudi! "  He  spat  into  the  City  Ditch  with 
apologies  for  allowing  national  feelings  to  over- 
come him.  "Though  I  have  lost  every  belief  in 
the  world,"  said  he,  "  and  try  to  be  proud  of  my 
losing,  I  cannot  help  hating  a  Jew.  Lalun  admits 
no  Jews  here." 

"  But  what  in  the  world  do  all  these  men  do  ?" 
I  asked. 

"The  curse  of  our  country,"  said  Wall  Dad. 
"They  talk.  It  is  like  the  Athenians — always 
hearing  and  telling  some  new  thing.  Ask  the 
Pearl  and  she  will  show  you  how  much  she 
knows  of  the  news  of  the  City  and  the  Province. 
Lalun  knows  everything." 

"  Lalun,"  I  said  at  random — she  was  talking  to 
a  gentleman  of  the  Kurd  persuasion  who  had 
come  in  from  God-knows-where — "when  does 
the  175th  Regiment  go  to  Agra.^" 

"It  does  not  go  at  all,"  said  Lalun,  without 
turning  her  head.  "They  have  ordered  the  i  i8th 
to  go  in  its  stead.  That  Regiment  goes  to  Luck- 
now  in  three  months,  unless  they  give  a  fresh 
order." 

"That  is  so,"  said  Wali  Dad  without  a  shade 
of  doubt.     "Can  you,  with  your  telegrams  gnd 


144  O?  the  City  Wall 

your  newspapers,  do  better  ?  Always  hearing 
and  telling  some  new  thing,"  he  went  on,  "  My 
friend,  has  your  God  ever  smitten  a  European 
nation  for  gossiping  in  the  bazars  ?  India  has 
gossiped  for  centuries — always  standing  in  the 
bazars  until  the  soldiers  go  by.  Therefore — you 
are  here  to-day  instead  of  starving  in  your  own 
country,  and  I  am  not  a  Muhammadan — I  am  a 
Product — a  Demnition  Product.  That  also  I  owe 
to  you  and  yours:  that  1  cannot  make  an  end  to 
my  sentence  without  quoting  from  your  authors." 
He  pulled  at  the  httqa  and  mourned,  half  feel- 
ingly, half  in  earnest,  for  the  shattered  hopes  of 
his  youth.  Wali  Dad  was  always  mourning  over 
something  or  other — the  country  of  which  he 
despaired,  or  the  creed  in  which  he  had  lost  faith, 
or  the  life  of  the  English  which  he  could  by  no 
means  understand. 

Lalun  never  mourned.  She  played  little  songs 
on  the  sHar,  and  to  hear  her  sing,  "  O  Peacock, 
cry  again,"  was  always  a  fresh  pleasure.  She 
knew  all  the  songs  that  have  ever  been  sung, 
from  the  war-songs  of  the  South  that  make  the 
old  men  angry  with  the  young  men  and  the 
young  men  angry  with  the  State,  to  the  love- 
songs  of  the  North  where  the  swords  whinny- 
whicker  like  angry  kites  in  the  pauses  between 
the  kisses,  and  the  Passes  1111  with  armed  men, 
and  the^Lover  is  torn  from  his  Beloved  and  cries, 


On  the  City  Wall  145 

At,  Ai,  At!  evermore.  She  knew  how  to  make 
up  tobacco  for  the  hiiqa  so  that  it  smelled  like  the 
Gates  of  Paradise  and  wafted  you  gently  through 
them.  She  could  embroider  strange  things  in 
gold  and  silver,  and  dance  softly  with  the  moon- 
light when  it  came  in  at  the  window.  Also  she 
knew  the  hearts  of  men,  and  the  heart  of  the 
City,  and  whose  wives  were  faithful  and  whose 
untrue,  and  more  of  the  secrets  of  the  Govern- 
ment Offices  than  are  good  to  be  set  down  in 
this  place.  Nasiban,  her  maid,  said  that  her 
jewelry  was  worth  ten  thousand  pounds,  and 
that,  some  night,  a  thief  would  enter  and  murder 
her  for  its  possession ;  but  Lalun  said  that  all  the 
City  would  tear  that  thief  limb  from  limb,  and 
that  he,  whoever  he  was,  knew  it. 

So  she  took  her  sitar  and  sat  in  the  window- 
seat  and  sang  a  song  of  old  days  that  had  been 
sung  by  a  girl  of  her  profession  in  an  armed  cam.p 
on  the  eve  of  a  great  battle — the  day  before  the 
Fords  of  the  Jumna  ran  red  and  Sivaji  fled  fifty 
miles  to  Delhi  with  a  Toorkh  stallion  at  his 
horse's  tail  and  another  Lalun  on  his  saddle-bow. 
It  was  what  men  call  a  Mahratta  laonee,  and  it 
said: 

Their  warrior  forces  Chimnajee 

Before  the  Peishwa  led, 
The  Children  of  the  Sun  and  Fire 

Behind  him  turned  and  fled. 


146  On  the  City  Wall 

And  the  chorus  said: 

With  them  there  fought  who  rides  so  free 

With  sword  and  turban  red, 
The  narrior-youth  who  earns  his  fee 

At  peril  of  his  head. 

"At  peril  of  his  head,"  said  Wali  Dad  in  Eng- 
lish to  me.  "Thanks  to  your  Government,  all 
our  heads  are  protected,  and  with  the  educational 
facilities  at  my  command  " — his  eyes  twinkled 
wickedly — "1  might  be  a  distinguished  member 
of  the  local  administration.  Perhaps,  in  time,  1 
might  even  be  a  member  of  a  Legislative  Coun- 
cil." 

"Don't  speak  English,"  said  Lalun,  bending 
over  her  sitar  afresh.  The  chorus  went  out  from 
the  City  wall  to  the  blackened  wall  of  Fort 
Amara  which  dominates  the  City.  No  man 
knows  the  precise  extent  of  Fort  Amara.  Three 
kings  built  it  hundreds  of  years  ago,  and  they 
say  that  there  are  miles  of  underground  rooms 
beneath  its  walls.  It  is  peopled  with  many 
ghosts,  a  detachment  of  Garrison  Artillery  and  a 
Company  of  Infantry.  In  its  prime  it  held  ten 
thousand  men  and  filled  its  ditches  with  corpses. 

"  At  peril  of  his  head,"  sang  Lalun,  again  and 
again. 

A  head  moved  on  one  of  the  Ramparts — the 
grey  head  of  an  old  man — and  a  voice,  rough  as 


On  the  City  Wall  147 

shark-skin  on  a  sword-hilt,  sent  back  the  last  line 
of  the  chorus  and  broke  into  a  song  that  1  could 
not  understand,  though  Lalun  and  Wali  Dad 
hstened  intently. 

' '  What  is  it  ?  "  I  asked.     ' '  Who  is  it .?  " 

"A  consistent  man,"  said  Wali  Dad.  "He 
fought  you  in  '46,  when  he  was  a  warrior- 
youth;  ref ought  you  in  '57,  and  he  tried  to  fight 
you  in  '71,  but  you  had  learned  the  trick  of  blow- 
ing men  from  guns  too  well.  Now  he  is  old; 
but  he  would  still  fight  if  he  could." 

"  Is  he  a  Wahabi,  then  }  Why  should  he  an- 
swer to  a  Mahratta  laonee  if  he  be  Wahabi — or 
Sikh.?"  said  I. 

''1  do  not  know,"  said  Wali  Dad.  "  He  has 
lost  perhaps,  his  religion.  Perhaps  he  wishes  to 
be  a  King.  Perhaps  he  is  a  King.  1  do  not 
know  his  name." 

"That  is  a  lie,  Wali  Dad.  If  you  know  his 
career  you  must  know  his  name." 

"That  is  quite  true.  I  belong  to  a  nation  of 
liars.  I  would  rather  not  tell  you  his  name. 
Think  for  yourself." 

Lalun  finished  her  song,  pointed  to  the  Fort, 
and  said  simply:  "  Khem  Singh." 

"  Hm,"  said  Wali  Dad.  "  If  the  Pearl  chooses 
to  tell  you  the  Pearl  is  a  fool." 

I  translated  to  Lalun,  who  laughed.  "  I  choose 
to  tell  what  I  choose  to  tell.     They  kept  Khem 


148  On  the  City  Wall 

Sin<Th  in  Burma,"  said  she.  "They  kept  him 
there  for  many  years  until  his  mind  was  changed 
in  him.  So  great  was  the  kindness  of  the  Gov- 
ernment. Finding  this,  they  sent  him  back  to 
his  own  country  that  he  might  look  upon  it  be- 
fore he  died.  He  is  an  old  man,  but  when  he 
looks  upon  this  his  country  his  memory  wilJ 
come.  Moreove',  there  be  many  who  remember 
him." 

"He  is  an  Interesting  Survival,"  said  Wali 
Dad,  pulling  at  the  liiiqa.  "  He  returns  to  a 
country  now  "full  of  educational  and  political  re- 
form, but,  as  the  Pearl  says,  there  are  many  who 
remember  him.  He  was  once  a  great  man. 
There  will  never  be  any  more  great  men  in  India. 
They  will  all,  when  they  are  boys,  go  whoring 
after  strange  gods,  and  they  will  become  citizens 
— '  fellow-citizens  ' — '  illustrious  fellow-citizens.' 
What  is  it  that  the  native  papers  call  them  ?  " 

Wali  Dad  seemed  to  be  in  a  very  bad  temper. 
Lalun  looked  out  of  the  window  and  smiled  into 
the  dust-haze.  I  went  away  thinking  about 
Khem  Singh  who  had  once  made  history  with  a 
thousand  followers,  and  would  have  been  a 
princeling  but  for  the  power  of  the  Supreme 
Government  aforesaid. 

The  Senior  Captain  Commanding  Fort  Amara 
was  away  on  leave,  but  the  Subaltern,  his  Deputy, 
had  drifted  down   to  the  Club,  where  I  found 


On  the  City  Wall  149 

him  and  inquired  of  him  whether  it  was  really 
true  that  a  political  prisoner  had  been  added  to 
the  attractions  of  the  Fort.  The  Subaltern  ex- 
plained at  great  length,  for  this  was  the  first 
time  that  he  had  held  Command  of  the  Fort,  and 
his  glory  lay  heavy  upon  him. 

"Yes,"  said  he,  "a  man  was  sent  in  to  me 
about  a  week  ago  from  down  the  line — a  thorough 
gentleman  whoever  he  is.  Of  course  I  did  all  I 
could  for  him.  He  had  his  two  servants  and 
some  silver  cooking-pots,  and  he  looked  for  all 
the  world  hke  a  native  officer.  I  called  him 
Subadar  Sahib;  just  as  well  to  be  on  the  safe  side, 
y'know.  'Look  here,  Subadar  Sahib,'  I  said, 
'you're  handed  over  to  my  authority,  and  I'm 
supposed  to  guard  you.  Now  I  don't  want  to 
make  your  life  hard,  but  you  must  make  things 
easy  for  me.  All  the  Fort  is  at  your  disposal, 
from  the  flagstaff  to  the  dry  ditch,  and  I  shall  be 
happy  to  entertain  you  in  any  way  I  can,  but  you 
mustn't  take  advantage  of  it.  Give  me  your 
word  that  you  won't  try  to  escape,  Subadar 
Sahib,  and  I'll  give  you  my  word  that  you  shall 
have  no  heavy  guard  put  over  you.'  I  thought 
the  best  way  of  getting  him  was  by  going  at 
him  straight,  y'know,  and  it  was,  by  Jove!  The 
old  man  gave  me  his  word,  and  moved  about  the 
Fort  as  contented  as  a  sick  crow.  He's  a  rummy 
chap — always  asking  to  be  told  where  he  is  and 


1 50  On  the  City  Wall 

what  the  buildings  about  him  are.  I  had  to  sign 
a  slip  of  blue  paper  when  he  turned  up,  acknowl- 
edging receipt  of  his  body  and  all  that,  and  I'm 
responsible,  y'know,  that  he  doesn't  get  away. 
Queer  thing,  though,  looking  after  a  Johnnie  old 
enough  to  be  your  grandfather,  isn't  it  ?  Come 
to  the  Fort  one  of  these  days  and  see  him  ?" 

For  reasons  which  will  appear,  I  never  went  to 
the  Fort  while  Khem  Singh  was  then  within  its 
walls.  1  knew  him  only  as  a  grey  head  seen 
from  Lalun's  window— a  grey  head  and  a  harsh 
voice.  But  natives  told  me  that,  day  by  day,  as 
he  looked  upon  the  fair  lands  round  Amara,  his 
memory  came  back  to  him  and,  with  it,  the  old 
hatred  against  the  Government  that  had  been 
nearly  effaced  in  far-off  Burma.  So  he  raged  up 
and  down  the  West  face  of  the  Fort  from  morn- 
ing till  noon  and  from  evening  till  the  night,  de- 
vising vain  things  in  his  heart,  and  croaking  war- 
songs  when  Lalun  sang  on  the  City  wall.  As 
he  grew  more  acquainted  with  the  Subaltern  he 
unburdened  his  old  heart  of  some  of  the  passions 
that  had  withered  it.  "Sahib,"  he  used  to  say, 
tapping  his  stick  against  the  parapet,  "  when  I 
was  a  young  man  I  was  one  of  twenty  thousand 
horsemen  who  came  out  of  the  City  and  rode 
round  the  plain  here.  Sahib,  I  was  the  leader  of 
a  hundred,  then  of  a  thousand,  then  of  five  thou- 
sand, and  now!"— he  pointed  to  his  two  serv- 


On  the  City  Wall  151 

ants.  "But  from  the  beginning  to  to-day  I 
would  cut  the  throats  of  all  the  Sahibs  in  the  land 
if  I  could.  Hold  me  fast,  Sahib,  lest  I  get  away 
and  return  to  those  who  would  follow  me.  I 
forgot  them  when  I  was  in  Burma,  but  now  that 
I  am  m  my  own  country  again,  I  remember 
everything." 

"Do  you  remember  that  you  have  given  me 
your  Honor  not  to  make  your  tendance  a  hard 
matter  }"  said  the  Subaltern. 

"Yes,  to  you,  only  to  you,  Sahib,"  said  Khem 
Singh.  "To  you,  because  you  are  of  a  pleasant 
countenance.  If  my  turn  comes  again,  Sahib,  I 
will  not  hang  you  nor  cut  your  throat." 

"Thank  you,"  said  the  Subaltern,  gravely,  as 
he  looked  along  the  line  of  guns  that  could  pound 
the  City  to  powder  in  half  an  hour.  "  Let  us  go 
into  our  own  quarters,  Khem  Singh.  Come  and 
talk  with  me  after  dinner." 

Khem  Singh  would  sit  on  his  own  cushion 
at  the  Subaltern's  feet,  drinking  heavy,  scented 
anise-seed  brandy  in  great  gulps,  and  telling 
strange  stories  of  Fort  Amara,  which  had  been 
a  palace  in  the  old  days,  of  Begums  and  Ranees 
tortured  to  death — aye,  in  the  very  vaulted  cham- 
ber that  now  served  as  a  Mess-room;  would  tell 
stories  of  Sobraon  that  made  the  Subaltern's 
cheeks  flush  and  tingle  with  pride  of  race,  and 
of  the  Kuka  rising  from  which  so  much  was  ex- 


152  On  the  City  IVall 

pected  and  the  foreknowledge  of  which  was 
shared  by  a  hundred  thousand  souls.  But  he 
never  told  tales  of  '57  because,  as  he  said,  he  was 
the  Subaltern's  guest,  and  '57  is  a  year  that  no 
man.  Black  or  White,  cares  to  speak  of.  Once 
only,  when  the  anise-seed  brandy  had  slightly 
affected  his  head,  he  said:  "Sahib,  speaking 
now  of  a  matter  which  lay  between  Sobraon  and 
the  affair  of  the  Kukas,  it  was  ever  a  wonder  to 
us  that  you  stayed  your  hand  at  all,  and  that, 
having  stayed  it,  you  did  not  make  the  land  one 
prison.  Now  I  hear  from  without  that  you  do 
great  honor  to  all  men  of  our  country  and  by 
your  own  hands  are  destroying  the  Terror  of 
your  Name  which  is  your  strong  rock  and  de- 
fence. This  is  a  foolish  thing.  Will  oil  and 
water  mix  ?    Now  in  '57  " — 

"I  was  not  born  then,  Subadar  Sahib,"  said 
the  Subaltern,  and  Khem  Singh  reeled  to  his 
quarters. 

The  Subaltern  would  tell  me  of  these  conver- 
sations at  the  Club,  and  my  desire  to  see  Khem 
Singh  increased.  But  Wali  Dad,  sitting  in  the 
window-seat  of  the  house  on  the  City  wall,  said 
that  it  would  be  a  cruel  thing  to  do,  and  Lalun 
pretended  that  1  preferred  the  society  of  a  grizzled 
old  Sikh  to  hers. 

"Here  is  tobacco,  here  is  talk,  here  are  many 
friends  and  all  the  news  of  the  City,  and,  above 


On  the  City  Wall  1^3 

all,  here  is  myself.  I  will  tell  you  stories  and 
sing  you  songs,  and  Wali  Dad  will  talk  his  Eng- 
lish nonsense  in  your  ears.  Is  that  worse  than 
watching  the  caged  animal  yonder  ?  Go  to-mor- 
row then,  if  you  must,  but  to-day  such  and  such 
an  one  will  be  here,  and  he  will  speak  of  won- 
derful things." 

It  happened  that  To-morrow  never  came,  and 
the  warm  heat  of  the  latter  Rains  gave  place  to 
the  chill  of  early  October  almost  before  I  was 
aware  of  the  flight  of  the  year.  The  Captain 
commanding  the  Fort  returned  from  leave  and 
took  over  charge  of  Khem  Singh  according  to  the 
laws  of  seniority.  The  Captain  was  not  a  nice 
man.  He  called  all  natives  !' niggers,"  which, 
besides  being  extreme  bad  form,  shows  gross 
ignorance. 

"What's  the  use  of  telling  off  two  Tommies 
to  watch  that  old  nigger  ?  "  said  he. 

"I  fancy  it  soothes  his  vanity,"  said  the  Subal- 
tern. "The  men  are  ordered  to  keep  well  out  of 
his  way,  but  he  takes  them  as  a  tribute  to  his  im- 
portance, poor  old  wretch." 

"I  won't  have  Line  men  taken  off  regular 
guards  in  this  way.  Put  on  a  couple  of  Native 
Infantry." 

"Sikhs.?"  said  the  Subaltern,  lifting  his  eye- 
brows. 

"Sikhs,    Pathans,    Dogras  —  they're  all  alike, 


154  On  the  City  Wall 

these  black  vermin,"  and  the  Captain  talked  to 
Khem  Singh  in  a  manner  which  hurt  that  old 
gentleman's  feelings.  Fifteen  years  before, 
when  he  had  been  caught  for  the  second  time, 
every  one  looked  upon  him  as  a  sort  of  tiger. 
He  liked  being  regarded  in  this  light.  But  he 
forgot  that  the  world  goes  forward  in  fifteen 
years,  and  many  Subalterns  are  promoted  to  Cap- 
taincies. 

The  Captain-pig  is  in  charge  of  the  Fort  ? " 
said  Khem  Singh  to  his  native  guard  every  morn- 
ing. And  the  native  guard  said:  "Yes,  Subadar 
Sahib,"  in  deference  to  his  age  and  his  air  of 
distinction;  but  they  did  not  know  who  he  was. 

In  those  days  the  gathering  in  Lalun's  little 
white  room  was  always  large  and  talked  more 
than  before. 

"The  Greeks,"  said  Wali  Dad  who  had  been 
borrowing  my  books,  "the  inhabitants  of  the 
city  of  Athens,  where  they  were  always  hearing 
and  telling  some  new  thing,  rigorously  secluded 
their  women — who  were  fools.  Hence  the 
glorious  institution  of  the  heterodox  women — is 
it  not  ? — who  were  amusing  and  7iot  fools.  All 
the  Greek  philosophers  delighted  in  their  com- 
pany. Tell  me,  my  friend,  how  it  goes  now  in 
Greece  and  the  other  places  upon  the  Continent 
of  Europe.     Are  your  women-folk  also  fools  ?" 

"Wali  Dad,"  1  said,  "you  never  speak  to  us 


On  the  City  Wall  155 

about  your  women-folk  and   we   never  speak 
about  ours  to  you.     That  is  the  bar  between  us." 

"Yes,"  said  Wali  Dad,  "it  is  curious  to  think 
that  our  common  meeting-place  should  be  here,  in 
the  house  of  a  common — how  do  you  call  her? " 
He  pointed  with  the  pipe-mouth  to  Lalun. 

"  Lalun  is  nothing  but  Lalun,"  I  said,  and  that 
was  perfectly  true.  "  But  if  you  took  your  place 
in  the  world,  Wali  Dad,  and  gave  up  dreaming 
dreams  " — 

"I  might  wear  an  English  coat  and  trouser.  I 
might  be  a  leading  Muhammadan  pleader.  I 
might  be  received  even  at  the  Commissioner's 
tennis-parties  where  the  English  stand  on  one 
side  and  the  natives  on  the  other,  in  order  to 
promote  social  intercourse  throughout  the  Em- 
pire. Heart's  Heart,"  said  he  to  Lalun  quickly, 
"the  Sahib  says  that  I  ought  to  quit  you." 

"The  Sahib  is  always  talking  stupid  talk,"  re- 
turned Lalun,  with  a  laugh.  "  In  this  house  I  am 
a  Queen  and  thou  art  a  King.  The  Sahib" — she 
put  her  arms  above  her  head  and  thought  for  a 
moment — "  the  Sahib  shall  be  our  Vizier — thine 
and  mine,  Wali  Dad — because  he  has  said  that 
thou  shouldst  leave  me." 

Wali  Dad  laughed  immoderately,  and  1  laughed 
too.  "  Be  it  so,"  said  he.  "  My  friend,  are  you 
willing  to  take  this  lucrative  Government  ap- 
pointment ?    Lalun,  what  shall  his  pay  be?" 


156  On  the  City  Wall 

But  Lalun  began  to  sing,  and  for  the  rest  of 
the  time  there  was  no  hope  of  getting  a  sensible 
answer  from  her  or  Wali  Dad.  When  the  one 
stopped,  the  other  began  to  quote  Persian  poetry 
with  a  triple  pun  in  every  other  line.  Some  of  it 
was  not  strictly  proper,  but  it  was  all  very  funny, 
and  it  only  came  to  an  end  when  a  fat  person  in 
black,  with  gold  piiice-ne:^,  sent  up  his  name  to 
Lalun,  and  Wali  Dad  dragged  me  into  the  twink- 
ling night  to  walk  in  a  big  rose-garden  and  talk 
heresies  about  Religion  and  Governments  and  a 
man's  career  in  life. 

The  Mohurrum,  the  great  mourning-festival  of 
the  Muhammadans,  was  close  at  hand,  and  the 
things  that  Wali  Dad  said  about  religious  fanati- 
cism would  have  secured  his  expulsion  from  the 
loosest-thinking  Muslim  sect.  There  were  the 
rose-bushC'S  round  us,  the  stars  above  us,  and 
from  every  quarter  of  the  City  came  the  boom  of 
the  big  Mohurrum  drums.  You  must  know  that 
the  City  is  divided  in  fairly  equal  proportions 
between  the  Hindus  and  the  Musalmans,  and 
where  both  creeds  belong  to  the  fighting  races,  a 
big  religious  festival  gives  ample  chance  for 
trouble.  When  they  can — that  is  to  say  when 
the  authorities  are  weak  enough  to  allow  it — the 
Hindus  do  their  best  to  arrange  some  minor 
feast-day  of  their  own  in  time  to  clash  with  the 
period    of .  general    mourning   for  the   martyrs 


On  the  City  Wall  157 

Hasan  and  Hussain,  the  heroes  of  the  Mohurrum. 
Gilt  and  painted  paper  presentations  of  their 
tombs  are  borne  with  shouting  and  waiUng, 
music,  torches,  and  yells,  through  the  principal 
thoroughfares  of  the  City,  which  fakements  are 
called  tafias.  Their  passage  is  rigorously  laid 
down  beforehand  by  the  Police,  and  detachments 
of  Police  accompany  each  ta^ia,  lest  the  Hindus 
should  throw  bricks  at  it  and  the  peace  of  the 
Queen  and  the  heads  of  Her  loyal  subjects  should 
thereby  be  broken.  Mohurrum  time  in  a  "fight- 
ing" town  means  anxiety  to  all  the  officials, 
because,  if  a  riot  breaks  out,  the  officials  and  not- 
the  rioters  are  held  responsible.  The  former 
must  foresee  everything,  and  while  not  making 
their  precautions  ridiculously  elaborate,  must  see 
that  they  are  at  least  adequate. 

"  Listen  to  the  drums !  "  said  Wall  Dad.  "That 
is  the  heart  of  the  people — empty  and  making 
much  noise.  How,  think  you,  will  the  Mohur- 
rum go  this  year.?  /  think  that  there  will  be 
trouble." 

He  turned  down  a  side-street  and  left  me  alone 
with  the  stars  and  a  sleepy  Police  patrol.  Then 
I  went  to  bed  and  dreamed  that  Wall  Dad  had 
sacked  the  City  and  1  was  made  Vizier,  with 
Lalun's  silver  htiqa  for  mark  of  office. 

All  day  the  Mohurrum  drums  beat  in  the  City, 
and  all  day  deputations  of  tearful  Hindu  gentle- 


158  On  the  City  IVall 

men  besieged  the  Deputy  Commissioner  with  as- 
surances that  they  would  be  murdered  ere  next 
dawning  by  the  Muhammadans.  "  Which,"  said 
the  Deputy  Commissioner,  in  confidence  to  the 
Head  of  Police,  "is  a  pretty  fair  indication  that 
the  Hindus  are  going  to  make  'emselves  unpleas- 
ant. 1  think  we  can  arrange  a  little  surprise  for 
them.  I  have  given  the  heads  of  both  Creeds 
fair  warning.  If  they  choose  to  disregard  it,  so 
much  the  worse  for  them." 

There  was  a  large  gathering  in  Lalun's  house 
that  night,  but  of  men  that  1  had  never  seen  be- 
fore, if  1  except  the  fat  gentleman  in  black  with 
the  gold  pince-nei.  Wall  Dad  lay  in  the  win- 
dow-seat, more  bitterly  scornful  of  his  Faith 
and  its  manifestations  than  I  had  ever  known 
him.  Lalun's  maid  was  very  busy  cutting  up 
and  mixing  tobacco  for  the  guests.  We  could 
hear  the  thunder  of  the  drums  as  the  processions 
accompanying  each  taiia  marched  to  the  central 
gathering-place  in  the  plain  outside  the  City, 
preparatory  to  their  triumphant  reentry  and  cir- 
cuit within  the  walls.  All  the  streets  seemed 
ablaze  with  torches,  and  only  Fort  Amara  was 
black  and  silent.   • 

When  the  noise  of  the  drums  ceased,  no  one 
in  the  white  room  spoke  for  a  time.  "The  first 
taiia  has  moved  off,"  said  Wall  Dad,  looking  to 
the  plain. 


On  the  City  Wall  159 

"That  is  very  early,"  said  the  man  with  the 
pince-ne:(^. 

"It  is  only  half-past  eight."  The  company 
rose  and  departed. 

"Some  of  them  were  men  from  Ladakh,"  said 
Lalun,  when  the  last  had  gone.  "  They  brought 
me  brick-tea  such  as  the  Russians  sell,  and  a  tea- 
urn  from  Peshawur.  Show  me,  now,  how  the 
English  Memsahibs  make  tea." 

The  brick-tea  was  abominable.  When  it  was 
finished  Wall  Dad  suggested  going  into  the 
streets.  "I  am  nearly  sure  that  there  will  be 
trouble  to-night,"  he  said.  "  All  the  City  thinks 
so,  and  Vox  Populi  is  yox  Dei,  as  the  Babus  say. 
Now  I  tell  you  that  at  the  corner  of  the  Padshahi 
Gate  you  v/ill  find  my  horse  all  this  night  if  you 
want  to  go  about  and  to  see  things.  It  is  a  most 
disgraceful  exhibition.  Where  is  the  pleasure  of 
saying  '  Ya  Hasan,  Ya  Hiissain,'  twenty  thousand 
times  in  a  night.?" 

All  the  processions — there  were  two  and  twenty 
of  them — were  now  well  within  the  City  walls. 
The  drums  were  beating  afresh,  the  crowd  were 
howling  "Ya  Hasan!  Ya  Hussain!"  ^nd  beat- 
ing their  breasts,  the  brass  bands  were  playing 
their  loudest,  and  at  every  corner  where  space 
allowed,  Muhammadan  preachers  were  telling  the 
lamentable  story  of  the  death  of  the  Martyrs.  It 
was  impossible  to  move  except  with  the  crowd, 


i6o  On  the  City  Wall 

for  the  streets  were  not  more  than  twenty  feet 
wide,  hi  the  Hindu  quarters  the  shutters  of  all 
the  shops  were  up  and  cross-barred.  As  the  first 
taiia,  a  gorgeous  erection  ten  feet  high,  was 
borne  aloft  on  the  shoulders  of  a  score  of  stout 
men  into  the  semi-darkness  of  the  Gully  of  the 
Horsemen,  a  brickbat  crashed  through  its  talc  and 
tinsel  sides. 

"Into  thy  hands,  O  Lord.?"  murmured  Wall 
Dad,  profanely,  as  a  yell  went  up  from  behind, 
and  a  native  officer  of  Police  jammed  his  horse 
through  the  crowd.  Another  brickbat  followed, 
and  the  ta^ia  staggered  and  swayed  where  it  had 
stopped. 

"Go  on!  In  the  name  of  the  Sirhar,  go  for- 
ward!" shouted  the  Policeman;  but  there  was  an 
ugly  cracking  and  splintering  of  shutters,  and  the 
crowd  halted,  with  oaths  and  growlings,  before 
the  house  whence  the  brickbat  had  been  thrown. 

Then,  without  any  warning,  broke  the  storm 
— not  only  in  the  Gully  of  the  Horsemen,  but  in 
half  a  dozen  other  places.  The  taiias  rocked 
like  ships  at  sea,  the  long  pole-torches  dipped 
and  rose  round  them  while  the  men  shouted: 
"  The  Hindus  are  dishonoring  the  ta:{i'as!  Strike! 
Strike!  Into  their  temples  for  the  faith!"  The 
six  or  eight  Policemen  with  each  ta^ia  drew  their 
batons,  and  struck  as  long  as  they  could  in  the 
hope  of  forcing  the  mob  forward,  but  they  were 


On  the  City  Wall  i6i 

overpowered,  and  as  contingents  of  Hindus 
poured  into  the  streets,  the  tight  became  general. 
Half  a  mile  away  where  the  taiias  were  yet  un- 
touched the  drums  and  the  shrieks  of  ''Ya  Hasan  ! 
Ya  HiissainI"  continued,  but  not  for  long.  The 
priests  at  the  corners  of  the  streets  knocked  the 
legs  from  the  bedsteads  that  supported  their  pul- 
pits and  smote  for  the  Faith,  while  stones  fell 
from  the  silent  houses  upon  friend  and  foe,  and 
the  packed  streets  bellowed:  "Din!  Din!  Din!'' 
A  ta^ia  caught  fire,  and  was  dropped  for  a  flam- 
ing barrier  between  Hindu  and  Musalman  at  the 
corner  of  the  Gully.  Then  the  crowd  surged 
forward,  and  Wall  Dad  drew  me  close  to  the 
stone  pillar  of  a  well. 

"It  was  intended  from  the  beginning!"  he 
shouted  in  my  ear,  with  more  heat  than  blank 
unbelief  should  be  guilty  of,  "The  bricks  were 
carried  up  to  the  houses  beforehand.  These 
swine  of  Hindus!  We  shall  be  gutting  kine  in 
their  temples  to-night! " 

Ta:{ia  after  ta:{ia,  some  burning,  others  torn 
to  pieces,  hurried  past  us  and  the  mob  with 
them,  howling,  shrieking,  and  striking  at  the 
house  doors  in  their  flight.  At  last  we  saw  the 
reason  of  the  rush.  Hugonin,  the  Assistant  Dis- 
trict Superintendent  of  Police,  a  boy  of  twenty, 
had  got  together  thirty  constables  and  was  forc- 
ing the  crowd  through  the  streets.     His  old  grey 


163  On  the  City  Wall 

Police-horse  showed  no  sign  of  uneasiness  as  it 
was  spurred  breast-on  into  the  crowd,  and  the 
long  dog-whip  with  which  he  had  armed  him- 
self was  never  still. 

"  They  know  we  haven't  enough  Police  to  hold 
'em,"  he  cried  as  he  passed  me,  mopping  a  cut  on 
his  face.  "  They  know  we  haven't!  Aren't  any 
of  the  men  from  the  Club  coming  down  to  help? 
Get  on,  you  sons  of  burned  fathers!"  The  dog- 
whip  cracked  across  the  writhing  backs,  and  the 
constables  smote  afresh  with  baton  and  gun-butt. 
With  these  passed  the  lights  and  the  shouting, 
and  'Wall  Dad  began  to  swear  under  his  breath. 
From  Fort  Amara  shot  up  a  single  rocket ;  then 
two  side  by  side.     It  was  the  signal  for  troops. 

Petitt,  the  Deputy  Commissioner,  covered  with 
dust  and  sweat,  but  calm  and  gently  smiling, 
cantered  up  the  clean-swept  street  in  rear  of  the 
main  body  of  the  rioters.  "No  one  killed  yet," 
he  shouted.  "  I'll  keep  'em  on  the  run  till  dawn! 
Don't  let  'em  halt,  Hugonin!  Trot  'em  about  till 
the  troops  come." 

The  science  of  the  defence  lay  solely  in  keeping 
the  mob  on  the  move.  If  they  had  breathing- 
space  they  would  halt  and  fire  a  house,  and  then 
the  work  of  restoring  order  would  be  more  diffi- 
cult, to  say  the  least  of  it.  Flames  have  the  same 
effect  on  a  crowd  as  blood  has  on  a  wild  beast. 

Word  had  reached  the  Club  and  men  in  even- 


On  the  City  Wall  163 

ing-dress  were  beginning  to  show  themselves 
and  lend  a  hand  in  heading  off  and  breaking  up 
the  shouting  masses  with  stirrup-leathers,  whips, 
or  chance-found  staves.  They  were  not  very 
often  attacked,  for  the  rioters  had  sense  enough 
to  know  that  the  death  of  a  European  would  not 
mean  one  hanging  but  many,  and  possibly  the 
appearance  of  the  thrice-dreaded  Artillery.  The 
clamor  in  the  City  redoubled.  The  Hindus  had 
descended  into  the  streets  in  real  earnest  and  ere 
long  the  mob  returned.  It  was  a  strange  sight. 
There  were  no  ta:ims — only  their  riven  platforms 
— and  there  were  no  Police.  Here  and  there  a 
City  dignitary,  Hindu  or  Muhammadan,  was 
vainly  imploring  his  co-religionists  to  keep  quiet 
and  behave  themselves — advice  for  which  his 
white  beard  was  pulled.  Then  a  native  officer  of 
Police,  unhorsed  but  still  using  his  spurs  with 
effect,  would  be  borne  along,  warning  all  the 
crowd  of  the  danger  of  insulting  the  Govern- 
ment. Everywhere  men  struck  aimlessly  with 
sticks,  grasping  each  other  by  the  throat,  howl- 
ing and  foaming  with  rage,  or  beat  with  their 
bare  hands  on  the  doors  of  the  houses. 

"  It  is  a  lucky  thing  that  they  are  fighting  with 
natural  weapons,"  I  said  to  Wali  Dad,  "else  we 
should  have  half  the  City  killed." 

I  turned  as  I  spoke  and  looked  at  his  face.  His 
nostrils  were  distended,  his  eyes  were  fixed,  and 


164  On  the  City  Wall 

he  was  smiting  himself  softly  on  the  breast. 
The  crowd  poured  by  with  renewed  riot— a  gang 
of  Musalmans  hard-pressed  by  some  hundred 
Hindu  fanatics.  Wall  Dad  left  my  side  with  an 
oath,  and  shouting:  "  Ya  Hasan!  Ya  Hiis- 
sai'ii  I  "  plunged  into  the  thick  of  the  fight  where 
I  lost  sight  of  him. 

I  fled  by  a  side  alley  to  the  Padshahi  Gate 
where  I  found  Wall  Dad's  house,  and  thence  rode 
to  the  Fort.  Once  outside  the  City  wall,  the  tu- 
mult sank  to  a  dull  roar,  very  impressive  under 
the  stars  and  reflecting  great  credit  on  the  fifty 
thousand  angry  able-bodied  men  who  were  mak- 
ing it.  The  troops  who,  at  the  Deputy  Commis- 
sioner's instance,  had  been  ordered  to  rendezvous 
quietly  near  the  Fort,  showed  no  signs  of  being 
impressed.  Two  companies  of  Native  Infantry, 
a  squadron  of  Native  Cavalry  and  a  company  of 
British  Infantry  were  kicking  their  heels  in  the 
shadow  of  the  East  face,  waiting  for  orders  to 
march  in.  I  am  sorry  to  say  that  they  were  all 
pleased,  unholily  pleased,  at  the  chance  of  what 
they  called  "a  little  fun."  The  senior  officers,  to 
be  sure,  grumbled  at  having  been  kept  out  of 
bed,  and  the  English  troops  pretended  to  be 
sulky,  but  there  was  joy  in  the  hearts  of  all  the 
subalterns,  and  whispers  ran  up  and  down  the 
line :  "No  ball-cartridge — what  a  beastly  shame ! " 
"D'you  think  the  beggars  will  really  stand  up  to 


On  the  City  Wall  165 

us?"  '"Hope  I  shall  meet  my  money-lender 
there.  I  owe  him  more  than  I  can  afford." 
"Oh,  they  won't  let  us  even  unsheathe  swords." 
"Hurrah!  Up  goes  the  fourth  rocket.  Fall  in, 
there!" 

The  Garrison  Artillery,  who  to  the  last  cher- 
ished a  wild  hope  that  they  might  be  allowed  to 
bombard  the  City  at  a  hundred  yards'  range, 
lined  the  parapet  above  the  East  gateway  and 
cheered  themselves  hoarse  as  the  British  Infantry 
doubled  along  the  road  to  the  Main  Gate  of  the 
City.  The  Cavalry  cantered  on  to  the  Padshahi 
Gate,  and  the  Native  Infantry  marched  slowly  to 
the  Gate  of  the  Butchers.  The  surprise  was  in- 
tended to  be  of  a  distinctly  unpleasant  nature, 
and  to  come  on  top  of  the  defeat  of  the  Police 
who  had  been  just  able  to  keep  the  Muham- 
madans  from  firing  the  houses  of  a  few  leading 
Hindus.  The  bulk  of  the  riot  lay  in  the  north 
and  northwest  wards.  The  east  and  southeast 
were  by  this  time  dark  and  silent,  and  I  rode 
hastily  to  Lalun's  house  for  I  wished  to  tell  her  to 
send  some  one  in  search  of  Wall  Dad.  The 
house  was  unlighted,  but  the  door  was  open, 
and  I  climbed  upstairs  in  the  darkness.  One 
small  lamp  in  the  white  room  showed  Lalun  and 
her  maid  leaning  half  out  of  the  window,  breath- 
ing heavily  and  evidently  pulling  at  something 
that  refused  to  come. 


1 66  On  the  City  Wall 

"Thou  art  late — very  late,"  gasped  Lalun, with- 
out turning  her  head.  "Help  us  now,  O  Fool, 
if  thou  hast  not  spent  thy  strength  howling 
among  the  ta:{ias.  Pull!  Nasiban  and  1  can  do 
no  more!  O  Sahib,  is  it  you  ?  The  Hindus  have 
been  hunting  an  old  Muhammadan  round  the 
Ditch  with  clubs.  If  they  find  him  again  they 
will  kill  him.     Help  us  to  pull  him  up." 

I  put  my  hands  to  the  long  red  silk  waist-cloth 
that  was  hanging  out  of  the  window,  and  we 
three  pulled  and  pulled  with  all  the  strength  at 
our  command.  There  was  something  very 
heavy  at  the  end,  and  it  swore  in  an  unknown 
tongue  as  it  kicked  against  the  City  wall. 

"Pull,  oh,  pull!"  said  Lalun,  at  the  last.  A 
pair  of  brown  hands  grasped  the  window-sill 
and  a  venerable  Muhammadan  tumbled  upon  the 
floor,  very  much  out  of  breath.  His  jaws  were 
tied  up,  his  turban  had  fallen  over  one  eye,  and 
he  was  dusty  and  angry. 

Lalun  hid  her  face  in  her  hands  for  an  instant 
and  said  something  about  Wall  Dad  that  1  could 
not  catch. 

Then,  to  my  extreme  gratification,  she  threw 
her  arms  round  my  neck  and  murmured  pretty 
things.  I  was  in  no  haste  to  stop  her;  and 
Nasiban,  being  a  handmaiden  of  tact,  turned  to 
the  big  jewel-chest  that  stands  in  the  corner  of 
the  white  room  and  rummaged  among  the  con- 


On  the  City  Wall  167 

tents.     The   Muhammadan  sat  on  the  floor  and 
glared. 

"One  service  more,  Sahib,  since  thou  hast 
come  so  opportunely,"  said  Lalun.  "  Wilt  thou  " 
— it  is  very  nice  to  be  thou-ed  by  Lalun — "  take 
this  old  man  across  the  City — the  troops  are 
everywhere,  and  they  might  hurt  him  for  he  is 
old — to  the  Kumharsen  Gate  ?  There  I  think  he 
may  fmd  a  carriage  to  take  him  to  his  house.  He 
is  a  friend  of  mine,  and  thou  art — more  than  a 
friend — therefore  I  ask  this." 

Nasiban  bent  over  the  old  man,  tucked  some- 
thing into  his  belt,  and  I  raised  him  up,  and  led 
him  into  the  streets.  In  crossing  from  the  east  to 
the  v/est  of  the  City  there  was  no  chance  of 
avoiding  the  troops  and  the  crowd.  Long  before 
I  reached  the  Gully  of  the  Horsemen  I  heard  the 
shouts  of  the  British  Infantry  crying  cheeringly: 
"  Hutt,  ye  beggars!  Hutt,  ye  devils!  Getalong! 
Go  forward,  there!  "  Then  followed  the  ringing 
of  rifle-butts  and  shrieks  of  pain.  The  troops 
were  banging  the  bare  toes  of  the  mob  with 
their  gun-butts — for  not  a  bayonet  had  been 
fixed.  My  companion  mumbled  and  jabbered  as 
we  walked  on  until  we  were  carried  back  by  the 
crowd  and  had  to  force  our  way  to  the  troops.  I 
caught  him  by  the  wrist  and  felt  a  bangle  there 
— the  iron  bangle  of  the  Sikhs — but  I  had  no 
suspicions,  for  Lalun  had  only  ten  minutes  before 


1 68  On  the  City  IVaU 

put  her  arms  round  me.  Thrice  we  were  carried 
back  by  the  crowd,  and  when  we  made  our  way 
past  the  British  Infantry  it  was  to  meet  the  Sikh 
Cavalry  driving  another  mob  before  them  with 
the  butts  of  their  lances. 

"What  are  these  dogs.^"  said  the  old  man. 

"Sikhs  of  the  Cavalry,  Father,"  1  said,  and  we 
edged  our  way  up  the  line  of  horses  two  abreast 
and  found  the  Deputy  Commissioner,  his  helmet 
smashed  on  his  head,  surrounded  by  a  knot  of 
men  vv'ho  had  come  down  from  the  Club  as 
amateur  constables  and  had  helped  the  Police 
mightily. 

"We'll  keep  'em  on  the  run  till  dawn,"  said 
Petitt.     "  Who's  your  villainous  friend  ?  " 

1  had  only  time  to  say:  "The  Protection  of 
the  Sirkar!"  when  a  fresh  crowd  flying  before 
the  Native  Infantry  carried  us  a  hundred  yards 
nearer  to  the  Kumharsen  Gate,  and  Petitt  was 
swept  away  like  a  shadow. 

"  I  do  not  know — I  cannot  see — this  is  all  new 
to  me!  "  moaned  my  companion,  "  How  many 
troops  are  there  in  the  City  ?" 

"Perhaps  five  hundred,"  I  said. 

"A  lakh  of  men  beaten  by  five  hundred — and 
Sikhs  among  them!  Surely,  surely,  1  am  an  old 
man,  but — the  Kumharsen  Gate  is  new.  Who 
pulled  down  the  stone  lions .?  Where  is  the 
conduit  ?    Sahib,  I  am  a  very  old  man,  and,  alas, 


On  the  City  Wall  169 

I — I  cannot  stand."  He  dropped  in  the  shadow 
of  the  Kumharsen  Gate  where  there  was  no  dis- 
turbance. A  fat  gentleman  wearing  gold  pince- 
nei  came  out  of  the  darkness. 

"You  are  most  kind  to  bring  my  old  friend," 
he  said,  suavely.  "  He  is  a  landholder  of  Akala. 
He  should  not  be  in  a  big  City  when  there  is 
religious  excitement.  But  I  have  a  carriage 
here.  You  are  quite  truly  kind.  Will  you  help 
me  to  put  him  into  the  carriage  ?  It  is  very 
late." 

We  bundled  the  old  man  into  a  hired  victoria 
that  stood  close  to  the  gate,  and  1  turned  back  to 
the  house  on  the  City  wall.  The  troops  were 
driving  the  people  to  and  fro,  while  the  Police 
shouted,  ' '  To  your  houses !  Get  to  your  houses ! " 
and  the  dog-whip  of  the  Assistant  District  Super- 
intendent cracked  remorselessly.  Terror-stricken 
bunnias  clung  to  the  stirrups  of  the  cavalry,  cry- 
ing that  their  houses  had  been  robbed  (which 
was  a  lie),  and  the  burly  Sikh  horsemen  patted 
them  on  the  shoulder,  and  bade  them  return  to 
those  houses  lest  a  worse  thing  should  happen. 
Parties  of  five  or  six  British  soldiers,  joining 
arms,  swept  down  the  side-gullies,  their  rifles  on 
their  backs,  stamping,  with  shouting  and  song, 
upon  the  toes  of  Hindu  and  Musalman.  Never 
was  religious  enthusiasm  more  systematically 
squashed;  and  never  were  poor  breakers  of  the 


170 


On  the  Citv  Wall 


peace  more  utterly  weary  and  footsore.  They 
were  routed  out  of  holes  and  corners,  from  be- 
hind well-pillars  and  byres,  and  bidden  to  go  to 
their  houses.  If  they  had  no  houses  to  go  to,  so 
much  the  worse  for  their  toes. 

On  returning  to  Lalun's  door  1  stumbled  over  a 
man  at  the  threshold.  He  was  sobbing  hysteric- 
ally and  his  arms  flapped  hke  the  wings  of  a 
goose.  It  was  Wall  Dad,  Agnostic  and  Unbe- 
liever, shoeless,  turbanless,  and  frothing  at  the 
mouth,  the  flesh  on  his  chest  bruised  and  bleed- 
ing from  the  vehemence  with  which  he  had 
smitten  himself.  A  broken  torch-handle  lay  by 
his  side,  and  his  quivering  lips  murmured,  "  Ya 
Hasan!  Ya  Hussain!"  as  1  stooped  over  him. 
I  pushed  him  a  few  steps  up  the  staircase,  threw 
a  pebble  at  Lalun's  City  window  and  hurried 
home. 

Most  of  the  streets  were  very  still,  and  the  cold 
wind  that  comes  before  the  dawn  whistled  down 
them.  In  the  centre  of  the  Square  of  the  Mosque 
a  man  was  bending  over  a  corpse.  The  skull 
had  been  smashed  in  by  gun-butt  or  bamboo- 
stave. 

"It  is  expedient  that  one  man  should  die  for 
the  people,"  said  Petitt,  grimly,  raising  the  shape- 
less head.  "These  brutes  were  beginning  to 
show  their  teeth  too  much." 

And  from  afar  we  could  hear  the  soldiers  sing- 


On  the  City  Wall  171 

ing  "Two  Lovely  Black  Eyes," as  they  drove  the 
remnant  of  the  rioters  within  doors. 

4(  4:  He  «  *  * 

Of  course  you  can  guess  what  happened  ?  I 
was  not  so  clever.  When  the  news  went  abroad 
that  Khem  Singh  had  escaped  from  the  Fort,  I 
did  not,  since  1  was  then  living  this  story,  not 
writing  it,  connect  myself,  or  Lalun,  or  the  fat 
gentleman  of  the  gold  pince-ne:{,  with  his  disap- 
pearance. Nor  did  it  strike  me  that  Wall  Dad 
was  the  man  who  should  have  convoyed  him 
across  the  City,  or  that  Lalun's  arms  round  my 
neck  were  put  there  to  hide  the  money  that 
Nasiban  gave  to  Kehm  Singh,  and  that  Lalun  had 
used  me  and  my  white  face  as  even  a  better  safe- 
guard than  Wall  Dad  who  proved  himself  so  un- 
trustworthy. All  that  I  knew  at  the  time  was 
that,  when  Fort  Amara  was  taken  up  with  the 
riots,  Khem  Singh  profited  by  the  confusion  to 
get  away,  and  thac  his  two  Sikh  guards  also 
escaped. 

But  later  on  I  received  full  enlightenment;  and 
so  did  Khem  Singh.  He  fled  to  those  who  knew 
him  in  the  old  days,  but  many  of  them  were  dead 
and  more  were  changed,  and  all  knew  something 
of  the  Wrath  of  the  Government.  He  went  to 
the  young  men,  but  the  glamour  of  his  name  had 
passed  away,  and  they  were  entering  native  regi- 


173  On  the  City  Wall 

ments  of  Government  offices,  and  Khem  Singh 
could  give  them  neither  pension,  decorations, 
nor  influence — nothing  but  a  glorious  death  with 
their  backs  to  the  mouth  of  a  gun.  He  wrote 
letters  and  made  promises,  and  the  letters  fell 
into  bad  hands,  and  a  wholly  insignificant  sub- 
ordinate officer  of  Police  tracked  them  down  and 
gained  promotion  thereby.  Moreover,  Khem 
Singh  was  old,  and  anise-seed  brandy  was 
scarce,  and  he  had  left  his  silver  cooking-pots  in 
Fort  Amara  with  his  nice  warm  bedding,  and  the 
gentleman  with  the  gold  pince-nei  was  told  by 
those  who  had  employed  him  that  Khem  Singh 
as  a  popular  leader  was  not  worth  the  money 
paid. 

"Great  is  the  mercy  of  these  fools  of  Eng- 
lish!" said  Khem  Singh  when  the  situation  was 
put  before  him.  "  I  will  go  back  to  Fort  Amara 
of  my  own  free  will  and  gain  honor.  Give  me 
good  clothes  to  return  in." 

So,  at  his  own  time,  Khem  Singh  knocked  at 
the  wicket-gate  of  the  Fort  and  walked  to  the 
Captain  and  the  Subaltern,  who  were  nearly 
grey-headed  on  account  of  correspondence  that 
daily  arrived  from  Simla  marked  "  Private." 

"  I  have  come  back.  Captain  Sahib,"  said  Khem 
Singh.  "  Put  no  more  guards  over  me.  It  is  no 
good  out  yonder." 

A  week  later  I  saw  him  for  the  first  time  to  my 


On  the  City  Wall  173 

knowledge,  and  he  made  as  though  there  were 
an  understanding  between  us, 

"It  was  well  done,  Sahib,"  said  he,  "and 
greatly  I  admired  your  astuteness  in  thus  boldly 
facing  the  troops  when  I,  whom  they  would 
have  doubtless  torn  to  pieces,  was  with  you. 
Now  there  is  a  man  in  Fort  Ooltagarh  whom  a 
bold  man  could  with  ease  help  to  escape.  This 
is  the  position  of  the  Fort  as  I  draw  it  on  the 
sand"  — 

But  I  was  thinking  how  I  had  become  Lalun's 
Vizier  after  all. 


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